Start Me Up
by Court81981
Summary: Katniss Everdeen is well aware of Formula 1 driver Peeta Mellark's reputation when she's hired as his mechanic. But Peeta's never let anything stand in the way of getting what he wants—and he wants her. A modern AU Everlark written in honor of iLoVeRynMar's birthday. Banner/gif by the amazing lovingmellark.
1. Chapter 1—Panem

_**Author's Note—** This was supposed to be posted __yesterday, in honor of iLoVeRynMar's birthday, but the odds were not in our favor. So here it is, a day late, but since (just like last year) this long one-shot has turned into a short WIP, I guess no harm no foul. This will keep giving like WTA did (and that should wrap up soon, though I might leave it as incomplete to revisit the universe with some one-shots)._

 _This story was inspired by the novel Revved by Samantha Towle. (I highly recommend!) I've consulted a number of Formula 1 references, and I've tried to keep to the general calendar of the order of the races. I haven't been to nearly any of the cities, though, so please keep that in mind, and I've mixed some real F1 things with fictional things. Creative license has been taken._

 _El, I can't really put into words how much your friendship means to me. You're always there when I need you, whether it's to fangirl about Everlark and Outlander, to share book recommendations, to read my drafts, or to let me vent about RL shit. You really are my rock. I've tried to channel a lot of what I know you love about Peeta into this story, and I hope you love it. Happy birthday!_

 _Thank you to lovingmellark/Any for the absolutely gorgeous and sexy gif/cover that she made! And thanks to sohypothetically for reading the first draft of Chapter 1 and convincing me it didn't suck. All mistakes are mine._

* * *

 _ **~*~Chapter 1~*~**_

* * *

 _ **~Panem, USA~**_

 _ **Mid-March**_

* * *

I step into the empty garage and inhale deeply, the intoxicating odor of rubber and gasoline flooding my nostrils. It's not a smell that everyone finds pleasant, but to me, it's heavenly. I jam my access card into the pocket of my jeans and let my eyes roam around. Instantly my line of vision is drawn to the very center of the open space. The sight there makes my heart pound. Adrenaline spikes in my blood. Gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights, beckoning me with its seductive, sleek beauty, is my car. Okay, so she's not _my_ car, but as of last Friday, she's my responsibility. A fulfillment of a dream that was born on a bright and sunny but bitterly cold November day thirteen years ago, when I was twelve.

Goose bumps rise on the back of my neck and my arms as I slowly approach the ML8-30. Orange pinstripes accent the black and graphite grey color scheme, though sponsor logos cover a significant portion of the car's frame. I trail my hand along the streamlined front end, feeling the smooth carbon fiber chassis beneath my fingertips, and trace the number 74 with my index finger. I round to the rear of the vehicle and release a lever. My eyes land on the V6 turbo engine. Looking at the powerful little contraption of valves and springs gives me same rush that most women get from ogling a new pair of heels. Excitement curls through me, followed by an intense bittersweet feeling. I glance up at the ceiling, unable to prevent the smile that lifts my lips as I place one hand on the back of driver's seat.

"You're awful early. Team meeting isn't until 10," says a gravelly voice behind me. I spin around and look directly into a pair of steely gray eyes that resemble my own. Haymitch pushes a lock of dirty blond hair out of those familiar eyes and fixes them on me. His weathered face breaks into a wry grin. "Couldn't help yourself, could ya?"

"I wanted to spend some time with her." I pat the molded seat again.

"You are your father's daughter," he says.

"This is all because of him." I motion around the garage. Haymitch's expression shifts and he shakes his head.

"It's not your name that got you this job."

"That's not what I meant." An unwelcome knot coils in my gut. "I meant because he's the reason I got into Formula 1 in the first place and—" Haymitch sets his mouth in a line and places a hand on my shoulder, cutting me off.

"Look, sweetheart, I know you've always been sensitive about getting places on your own merit and not because of some legacy your dad left behind. Henrik Mellark chose you over all the other applicants for this position. That alone speaks volumes for your talent."

Haymitch's praise loosens the knot in my stomach a little. My uncle isn't a man of many words and most of those are of the four-letter variety. I'm not entirely sure what he meant by that last part, but his reassurance goes a long way. I've worked my ass off to get where I am in a sport that's still predominately a boys' club. Between my gender and my pedigree, it's been a struggle to prove myself.

"You're the best damn mechanic out there. Don't you ever doubt that. I'm proud of you." He motions above our heads. "And he'd proud of you too." He pats my shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze. "I'll be in my office. Just holler if you need me." Then he turns and starts to stalk out of the garage.

"Haymitch?" I call to his retreating back. When he looks back over his shoulder, I smile. "Thanks."

"You earned it, sweetheart." He winks and strides off, leaving me alone in the cavernous garage. I blow out a slow breath and start to wander around, taking in my new work environment. A massive workbench runs nearly the entire length of the rear wall. Four towers of Pirelli tires are neatly stacked beside it. Several portable work carts stand further off to the side. I stride over to one and grasp the top drawer's handle, giving it a gentle yank. The assortment of pristine titanium wrenches inside brings a silly grin to my face. Everything looks brand new. For all I know it might be. F1 teams spare no expenses in their quests to give their drivers the best.

Near the front of the garage is the locker room. I don't bother to go inside. I know exactly what I'll see. One big open changing space. Showers. Bathroom facilities—probably mostly urinals and maybe one or two stalls.

At the garages where I apprenticed, it was made patently clear to me that I was not welcome inside the locker room, even at the beginning of a work day when I was only tugging on a jumpsuit over my street clothes. I've gotten used to changing in ladies' rooms. But it does really suck having to drive home all dirty and sweaty, unable to shower until I reach my own apartment (or the hotel if it's a race day). I assume it will be no different here at Mellark Racing.

I turn my attention back to the car. Pulling my phone from my pocket, I scroll through my music and find a suitable playlist. I tap "shuffle" and set my phone down on the workbench. Swaying my hips a little in time with the first song that starts to play, I gather my hair up into a loose ponytail and approach the ML8-30 again. It really is a thing of beauty. I feel that jolt of excitement light up my nerves anew.

Just as I kneel down and trail my fingers along the rear tire's tread, an unfamiliar voice says, "Please tell me what I need to do to get you touch me like that. _Fuck_."

Startled, I leap to my feet and whirl about in the direction of the voice. Standing near the entrance to the garage is the driver of my car. A driver who has taken F1 by storm and supplanted his older brother as the top driver at Mellark Racing. A driver who is the early favorite to win the F1 Drivers Championship, thus allowing Mellark Racing to dethrone Snow Motors for the first time in five years. Oh yeah, and a driver who's made it onto the pages of _People's_ Sexiest Men Alive issue. Not once, not twice, but three years in a row.

And I gaze into Peeta Mellark's famous blue eyes I can see what all the hype is about. He is _that_ attractive. Unfairly attractive. His usually disheveled blond hair has been cut and is neatly styled. His skin has a bronze glow to it, like he's been basking in the sun somewhere. The expensive looking suit that he wears looks as if it were custom made for him—which it probably was.

Those big blue eyes crinkle at the corners and his mouth tugs up as his gaze skims up and down my body. "So," he says, leaning against one of the beams and casually slipping his hand into the pocket of his tailored pants, "you must be Katniss." He licks his lips and scratches at his jaw, then shakes his head as his mouth flirts with a wider smile. "Haymitch did not tell me how fucking gorgeous you are."

I set my lips into a thin line. Peeta Mellark's reputation precedes him. His good looks and his success on the track are a potent combination. He's in magazines and billboards, pitching everything from cologne to milk. But his social life also makes him a favorite target of the tabloids. In all the paparazzi photos that I've seen he's always with a different woman. Oh—I think he might have had a month-long relationship with some pop singer last year, but I'd bet that's about as long-term as he's ever gotten.

So I can't say I'm surprised that within thirty seconds of meeting me he's flirting with me. Peeta scratches at his jaw again. "I have to be honest, though. I was pretty surprised when Haymitch told me that my father hired a woman to be my mechanic."

"Why is that?" I cross my arms and immediately his eyes flit down to where my arms are folded on my chest. When his gaze continues to linger below my neck, unapologetically ogling my breasts in the tight tank top I wear, I narrow my eyes and snap my fingers at him. He looks back up and a slow grin lifts one corner of his mouth.

"You have a problem with a woman working on your car?" I add, a note of challenge in my tone.

"Fuck no. Not at all. It's a fucking turn-on when a woman knows her way around a car. If you're the best out there—and both my father and Haymitch swear that you are— I'm a lucky bastard to snag you for my car before someone else could." His grin becomes a little sheepish and his confident façade falters a bit. "It's just working with a beautiful, sexy woman nearly every day…it might be a bit of a temptation for me."

At least he's aware of said reputation. I resist the urge to roll my eyes at him. The sooner I get accustomed to his womanizing nature, the easier it will be to accept that this is who he is and try to see past it so it doesn't affect our working relationship.

I place one hand back on his car and lock on those big blue eyes of his. "Well, lucky for you I'm here for one thing and one thing only." I watch that perfectly chiseled jaw of his clench and his lips purse. Before he can speak, footsteps sound behind him and his father steps into the garage.

"Good morning, Katniss," Henrik says. "I see you've met my son."

"Good morning, sir. Yes, Peeta and I were just discussing his car." Peeta arches a blond brow at me and I flash him a condescendingly sweet smile. Henrik glances between the two of us and clears his throat.

"Peet, Johanna is looking for you. Gillette called. They want to move up your shoot," Henrik says. Peeta jams his hand in his other pocket and frowns, but there's a mischievous edge to it.

"Well, look at that, I forgot my phone again."

Henrik grimaces. "Perhaps we'll have to have it welded to your hand if you continue to forget it. I shouldn't have to play go-between with your personal assistant."

"Eh. Johanna likes you better than me or Rye anyway." Peeta smirks. Henrik sighs and I can sense his exasperation with his son is steadily mounting.

"Katniss, if you'd like coffee or something else, Delly will be coming around momentarily to take orders," Henrik says.

"Thank you, sir." I bypassed my usual latte this morning in favor of getting to the garage ahead of everyone else, so coffee sounds awesome.

"Please call me Henrik," he says warmly. "Now, Peeta, if you'll come with me we'll give the girl at Gillette a call back and get this shoot straightened out. Can't have the sponsors unhappy."

"Dad," Peeta says, though his eyes remain fixed on me, "you should know by now that I always strive to make people happy." He straightens up and saunters towards me, stopping a few feet from me. He extends his hand. I stare at it for a moment before I reach out and grasp it. As we shake hands, Peeta's thumb deliberately grazes my knuckles and a little shiver passes through me. "I'm glad to have you on my team, Katniss. I can tell my car is in _very_ good hands." The inflection in his voice causes another shiver to race up my spine. With one more brush of his thumb over my skin, he releases me from his grip and strides past his father out of the garage. Henrik glances at his retreating son, tells me he'll see me shortly, and follows Peeta down the corridor. Alone again, I slowly exhale and press a hand to my rapidly beating heart.

The autosport industry is never ever dull but something tells me working for Mellark Racing is going to be one hell of a wild ride.

* * *

I spend the next hour familiarizing myself with Peeta's car. Not that I'll spend too much working on it here. Starting next week, I'll be following Mellark Racing around the globe, beginning with the Australian Grand Prix in Melbourne. The F1 season runs from March to November and involves a dizzying amount of travel. I'll have to adjust to living out of a suitcase and learn to cope with perpetual jet lag. I haven't done too much traveling up until this point in my life. I'm kind of excited to see so many new places, even if I know there won't always be time for sightseeing in every city.

Delly, as it turns out, is one of the front-of-the-house girls. I like her immediately, especially because she doesn't judge me for ordering my latte with 2% milk— not skim—and with extra whipped cream. She's pretty, a bit on the chubby side, and she doesn't stop smiling the entire time we chat. Her blonde hair and bright blue eyes make me wonder if she's related to the Mellarks. Before she leaves the garage, she snatches my phone from the workbench, saves her number into my contacts, and tells me if I ever need anything to text her.

As ten o'clock nears, I wash my hands in the sink and clean up a little. After I shake out my ponytail and wind up hair up into a loose bun, I slick on some lip gloss—the extent of my makeup routine. I check my reflection in the mirror. Good enough. Team management is meeting this morning to finalize the last of the details for the new season. Mechanics do not attend such meetings, but Henrik asked me to come by the conference room in order to introduce me to everyone.

The conference room door is closed when I arrive at ten on the dot. I inhale and blow out a cleansing breath, straighten my shoulders, and run my tongue over my teeth. I rest my knuckles on the door for a moment, then I knock. I hear Henrik call to me to come in, and with another deep breath, I open the door.

"There she is," Henrik says, with a warm smile. "Gentlemen, this is Katniss Everdeen, our new primary mechanic on the number 74 car. You know Haymitch, of course, and you met Peeta already, but to my left…"

At the mention of Peeta's name, I look over to where he sits to his father's right. His mouth curves into that sexy half-smile that he's clearly perfected. He swivels back and forth in his chair, keeping his eyes locked on me. I guess it's better than him staring at my breasts. Though I can feel Peeta's gaze on me, I tear my eyes away from him and look to his father's left, because I know I should be paying attention to the other introductions, even if I won't remember all the names right away.

Unfortunately, to Henrik's left sits Rye Mellark, Peeta's older brother and the number-two driver at Mellark Racing. His mouth quirks up in a smile that mirrors his younger brother's and just like Peeta did earlier, Rye lowers his gaze to my chest, not the least bit discreetly either, I might add. I blink and keep my expression neutral as Rye looks back up at me. He's definitely handsome, but there's an arrogance etched on his face that makes him far less attractive than his brother. I find myself stealing another glance over at Peeta. His eyes flicker when our gazes collide. Quickly, I avert my eyes and look across the table, trying to discern where in the line of introductions Henrik is.

As more names are rattled off, I nod and smile politely at each of the men, trying to match faces with their positions on the team. Most of the men smile in return. One man—Henrik identifies him as the team manager—sits stony-faced, arms crossed, practically glaring at me. He clears his throat when Henrik finishes the introductions and his dark gaze lands on me.

"Ms. Everdeen, don't take this the wrong way. Your father was a stellar racer and I'm sure you are a formidable mechanic." He returns his attention to Henrik. "But Henrik, do you really think this is a wise decision, bringing a woman in as…?" His eyes slide towards Peeta and I know exactly what the man is implying. The air immediately charges with tension, and I see several pairs of eyes volley back and forth between this man and Peeta.

"You got something to say, Crane, say it," Peeta says, tenting his fingers as he continues to swivel, a smirk lifting both sides of his mouth. Henrik shoots his son a reproachful look.

"We are all professionals here, Seneca. I can assure you that Katniss's gender will not present any problems for this team," Henrik replies.

This man—Seneca Crane—shakes his head and leans forward slightly. "Do I need to remind you what happened last year with that pretty little—?"

"She lied!" Peeta lunges forward. I nearly jump because he smacks the table with such force. "She lied through her goddamn teeth! She made up a bunch of bullshit so she could sell the story to the fucking tabloids!"

"Yes, and may I remind you that we shelled out quite a bit of money to keep that particular story out of the tabloids," Seneca snaps.

"For a fucking lie! She fleeced us!" Peeta yells back. I swallow and seek out Haymitch, hoping he can give me some small visual reassurance to ease the uncomfortable feeling that's swelling inside me, but my uncle's grey eyes are shooting daggers at Seneca Crane.

"Peeta, calm down," Henrik says, a sharp edge of warning to his tone. "This is neither the time nor the place. Seneca, the incident with that girl is in the past and that is where it stays. Do not mention it again. I have complete faith in Peeta or I would not have hired Katniss, no matter how impeccable her résumé and references were. And they were impeccable. We are very fortunate to have her on board and this is hardly the welcome that she deserves." Henrik aims an apologetic glance in my direction, and I smile the best I can, hoping my discomfort doesn't show on my face.

But I'm also morbidly curious as to what kind of incident could get Peeta so riled up. His jaw is locked so tightly that I can see his pulse ticking furiously in his neck. I make a mental note to ask Haymitch what the hell happened as soon as I can get a few moments alone with him. The more I know about Peeta, the better.

* * *

But as it turns out Haymitch isn't the one to give me the sordid details of the mysterious incident Seneca and Peeta argued about.

After Henrik dismisses me from the meeting, Peeta's eldest brother Connor escorts me back to the garage. As the chief mechanic for Mellark Racing, Connor oversees all the mechanics on each of the cars, and unbeknownst to me, he's called a meeting of his own. All three of the other mechanics for Peeta's car are there, as well as the four mechanics for Rye's car and the test/reserve driver Thom's mechanics. Teams are allowed to have two reserve drivers, but Mellark Racing has just one.

Connor introduces me to everyone and I spend a few minutes getting to know Darius, Thresh, and Chaff. Everyone seems nice enough, but the real test will come when the four of us are working on Peeta's car and they have to answer to me. That's when any dormant sexism will rear its head. Though I hope it won't be the case with my team, I'm prepared for it.

Once the meeting breaks up, I stick around, intending to get ahead for tomorrow's arduous task of dismantling Peeta's car and preparing it to be shipped to Melbourne. I'm in the middle of unboxing the massive tubes of bubble wrap when a female voice announces, "So, you're what everyone's been talking about." I'm so startled that I nearly slash my palm open with the box cutter. I set it down and face my intruder. A petite but tough-looking woman with cropped brown hair and a piercing through her right eyebrow cocks her head and looks me up and down. She shrugs. "Not sure what the big deal is."

"Excuse me?" Who the hell is this girl?

"Relax. I'm not insulting you. I just meant I'm not sure why everyone's so fucking worried about Peeta being around you. Contrary to popular belief, he doesn't fuck every girl he meets. And you're not really his type."

What was she saying about not insulting me? Because what she just said definitely sounded like an insult. Not that I know anything about what Peeta's type is, but type or no type it sure seemed like he was flirting with me earlier today. I think about the way he looked at me, first in the garage and then again in the conference room. A little ripple moves through my stomach.

"Who are you?" I ask, placing my hands on my hips.

"Oh, right. Johanna Mason." She thrusts a hand forward and grins. "I work here." I do vaguely remember Henrik and Peeta mentioning a Johanna. Cautiously, I reach out and shake her hand.

"Katniss. Everdeen. I'm—"

"Duh. I know exactly who you are. Peeta's new mechanic. The one everyone's afraid he's gonna sleep with."

I find the question leaving my mouth before I can stop it, but then, I suppose it's Johanna's brazenness that invites me to be equally brash. "Why is that?"

"Oh, because he's done it before," she replies. I arch a brow. "Just once," she adds hastily. "There's a reason only two women work for Mellark. Well, three if you count Effie, but she doesn't really count." I wait for her to offer up more information because then it won't look like I'm prying, but Johanna just stands there, smirking at me, as if she's daring me to bait her.

I don't. I pick up the box cutter again and run it down the seam of tape. I pry open the next box of bubble tape and glance up at Johanna. Her expression softens just a bit as she continues, "Because in spite of his reputation Peeta has feelings. And a heart. A big one. And I'll be damned if I'm gonna let what happened to him last year happen to him ever again."

Okay, _now_ I'll bite. "What was that?" I ask, trying to sound casual as I lift out another tube of bubble wrap. Johanna leans against the workbench and studies me for a moment.

"You know why your position was available?" she asks. I nod.

"Peeta's head mechanic left for Snow," I reply. Haymitch had called me the minute he had learned of the guy's resignation and all but ordered me to get my application into Henrik Mellark's hands.

"Right." Johanna nods. "But there's way more to the story." She continues talking, explaining how Gloss—Peeta's old number one mechanic—had a sister who used to work front-of-the-house with Delly. According to Johanna, Cashmere was all over Peeta, constantly throwing herself at him.

"He flirted back, of course, because that's what Peeta does, but he knew she was Gloss's sister and Peeta respected that," she says. "But after the Japanese Grand Prix—which Peeta won, by the way—the entire team went out to celebrate. We were all pretty drunk, and somehow, Cashmere got Peeta alone and one thing led to another." Johanna makes an obscene gesture with her hands, as if I needed the visual to put two-and-two together. I wrinkle my nose at her, but she's unfazed by my response to her crassness.

"It just happened the one time but Cashmere wasn't content to be a one-night stand, and despite the fact she had told Peeta that Gloss was okay with it, he was not. When Gloss found out, he flipped the fuck out at Peeta. It was a huge mess. Henrik had to do something to restore order. There were five races left in the season at that point.

"When he went to fire Cashmere she went off the deep end. Threatened to go to the press and tell everyone she was being fired for sleeping with Peeta. And she threatened Henrik with a bullshit sexual harassment lawsuit on top of that."

"Holy shit," I whisper.

"We didn't need the scandal. Henrik cut a deal with her to keep her from opening her mouth, and he gave Gloss a nice severance package and a glowing recommendation. Snow hired him almost immediately," Johanna finishes. I don't say it aloud, but I'm sure the fact that Gloss landed at Snow only further fueled Peeta's anger. His chief rival, Cato Wagner, is Snow's top driver.

Johanna sets her lips in a line and fixes me with a harsh glare. "I'm telling you all of this because this is Peeta's year. He doesn't need any distractions. What he needs is loyal friends and the fucking best mechanics in the business to ensure that he finishes at the top in November. And if Henrik hired you, of all people, to be Peeta's number one, you must be the best. Just don't fuck with him—in any way shape or form. Got it?"

"You and Henrik and the others have nothing to be concerned about. I don't sleep with guys I work with and that goes double for drivers. Even if I were his type." I can't resist tacking that last bit on there.

She grins. "Glad we're on the same page. Welcome to the team."

* * *

 _Thank you for reading. The chapters may vary greatly in length, because this was supposed to be a one-shot, but I'm tentatively planning on having each city/race as a chapter. I'd like to try and finish the whole thing (currently, it stands at 29K and it's probably halfway done) and then figure it out, but I will post the next chapter soon._

 _Again, happy birthday, El! I hope it was a magical day. ILY!_


	2. Chapter 2—Melbourne

_**Author's Note—** Thanks for your patience with the very slow update to the next chapter of this story (and all my stories). I hope that the colder weather means more time for my writing, and thus, faster updates._

 _Again, I've done my research on F1, but there are some liberties taken with details for the sake of fiction. This is an Everlark story first and foremost. Any and all mistakes are mine._

 _El, this is for you, as always. Another bday gift that doesn't stop giving (more because I suck this go-round, but…) ILY._

* * *

 _ **~*~Melbourne~*~**_

 _ **Australian Grand Prix**_

 _ **Mid-to-Late March**_

* * *

"How's my girl?"

My fingers grip the chamois cloth a little tighter at the sound of Peeta's voice. I'm surprised to hear it because at this morning's debriefing, Henrik made it sound as if Peeta was still in Tokyo, where he's been filming a razor commercial for Gillette. I didn't really give much thought to his absence. It's not unheard of for teams to use their reserve drivers at the Friday practice sessions.

I give the chassis a few more swipes before spinning around to face him. He's dressed in a light grey Henley shirt that does amazing things for his very toned upper body and a pair of dark-wash jeans that sit low on his narrow hips. At least a day's worth of blond stubble stipples his cheeks and jawline. He might look even hotter in this casual attire than he did in his fancy suit. And he must know it too, because his mouth curls into that "Yeah-I-know-I'm-sexy" smile when he catches me staring.

"Ah, she's good. Almost ready for tomorrow," I say, shoving the cloth into my pocket. He saunters towards me, his gaze trekking down the length of my body. It makes me feel exposed in spite of the coveralls I'm wearing over my usual tank top and jeans. He stops a couple of feet away from where I stand beside his car as he fastens those blue eyes on me.

"I wasn't talking about the car," he says. The inflection in his voice causes my pulse to stutter. Which irritates me, actually. Even if he is an incorrigible flirt, I can't entertain it. I'm here to do a job, and to do it well enough that he starts off the season with a win on Sunday. I flex my left hand and furl my fingers into a fist.

"Well I _was_ talking about the car," I retort. His eyes drop to my mouth, for some inexplicable reason, but he doesn't say anything as he starts towards me again. I suck in a breath. His elbow brushes my upper arm as he steps past me to peer into the cockpit of his car. I watch as he strolls around the perimeter of the racecar, inspecting it.

"She looks great," he comments, trailing his fingers along the rear wing. Before I can respond with a "thanks," I feel a yawn coming on. I clamp a hand over my mouth to try and stifle it, just as Peeta looks over at me.

"Tired?" he asks. I can hear the sympathy in his tone. I shrug as another yawn overcomes me and this time I have to succumb to it. "Jet lag's a bitch," he adds, "and you've obviously worked really hard today. How long have you been at it?" He taps the rear wing again.

"Got here at 6. I wanted to get the kit all unpacked before the debriefing so I could start rebuilding right after."

Peeta's brows dip downward. "Did you take a break today? Did you eat lunch?"

"Ah…no," I admit. Once Henrik had dismissed us, I had set right to work on Peeta's car. I hadn't stopped to look at the clock. It was only the persistent grumbling of my stomach that reminded me I hadn't eaten and by that time I was in such a rhythm that I just kept working.

"Fuck, Katniss, you must be exhausted!" he exclaims. When I yawn for a third time in so many minutes, he narrows his eyes at me and shakes his head reproachfully. "You need to get some rest."

"I'm fine." I wave a hand dismissively.

His lips twitch into a coy smile. "The car looks great. I'm sure she's going to handle beautifully tomorrow morning. You need to go get some rest so you can have dinner with me tonight."

My spine stiffens and I plant my hands on my hips. "Peeta, no. I'm not going to go out with you. I don't—" He silences my protest by closing the distance between us, trapping my words in my throat. He stands so close to me that I can smell the spearmint on his breath and the spicy musk of his cologne. His fingers wrap around my elbow and he stares down at me.

"Relax," he begins. There's a raspy cadence to his tone that has my pulse speeding up yet again. Instead of shaking out of his grasp, I find myself rooted in place. He smiles. "I'm not asking you out. Some of us are going out tonight. As a group. You should join us. Get to know everyone better."

"Oh." My cheeks grow hot as embarrassment courses through me. I look down at my hands so he can't see how pink my cheeks are. "Uh, thanks, but I really am tired and I should just have a low-key evening with the practice sessions tomorrow and…" I feel his finger on my chin and he tips my face back towards him, ceasing my rambling.

"No excuses. Dad has cars outside. One will take you back to the hotel. You can rest now, and then you'll meet us at the Point at 7."

"I really should just—" He lays the same finger that was just on my chin across my mouth, shutting me up yet again.

"I'm not taking "no" for an answer." He keeps his eyes locked on mine as he withdraws his finger and steps away from me. "I've got to go meet with my father. I'll see you at 7. No excuses," he echoes. He purses his lips at me and turns, a confident swagger to his gait as he walks towards the office near the front of the garage. My eyes roam over his retreating back. The material of his shirt stretches snug across his broad shoulders, hinting at the muscles beneath. Shit. I should not be checking him out.

He loiters in front of the door and gives me a lingering look, then raises his hand and knocks once, disappearing inside the office a moment later. Through the slats of the blinds I can see Henrik rise from his desk and greet Peeta, but then my view of them becomes obscured when they walk away from the window.

Peeta is right about one thing: my jet lag has hit me hard and I'm exhausted. A nap sounds so damn tempting right about now, but I have a few things to finish up on his car. And besides, I'll be damned if I'm going to let him order me around. I queue up another playlist and pluck the chamois from my pocket.

About twenty minutes later, I'm polishing the rims of the left rear tire when the office door opens and both Henrik and Peeta emerge. I cut my eyes right back to the tire, but I swear I can feel Peeta's gaze burning into the back of my neck. The hairs there prickle and I shudder involuntarily. I don't turn around again until their footsteps fade and I'm positive I'm alone in the garage.

* * *

The obnoxious trill of my phone's alarm causes my eyes flutter open into the murky darkness of my hotel room. I arch my back and stretch out along the bed, rolling onto my side to peer at the digital clock on the bedside table, even though I already know it's going to read 6:00. I flop back against the comforter and stare up at the ceiling, my body still deliciously heavy with sleep.

I had left the track intent on showering, ordering some room service, and then crawling under the sheets until morning. But Haymitch paid me a visit just as I was finishing up on Peeta's car. He all but commanded me to go to dinner with everyone. I argued with him for several minutes before he pulled the "there's-no-I-in-team" bullshit and I caved. It's easier not to be on Haymitch's bad side and I want to enjoy my first race weekend without him scowling at me for three days straight.

After combing through my limited wardrobe, I settle on a pair of skinny jeans and a silky black and silver top that doesn't show too much cleavage. I sweep my hair into a low ponytail and grab my phone, and then I set off on foot. Haymitch had said it wasn't too long a walk from the hotel and the nap has revived me a little. I get to see some of the city this way and I can always take a cab home.

The restaurant is right on the water, offering a spectacular view of the bay. I hope that someone suggests dining outside. It's a lovely evening, very seasonable for what's the first day of fall down here in Australia. At least, I assume it's the first day of fall. Back home in the States it's the first day of spring, March 20th.

I head inside, where a pretty blonde hostess greets me. I don't miss how her green eyes light up when I mention I'm with a party from Mellark Racing. She tells me that our table isn't ready yet, but Mr. Mellark is waiting in the bar. I assume from her silly schoolgirl smile that the "Mr. Mellark" she's referring to is Peeta. I scan the bar, and like a beacon, my gaze hones right in on him. It's like charisma radiates off of him in waves. He's seated at the bar, a glass of amber liquid in front of him. Each time I see him I swear he looks more attractive than the last time. His blond hair now has that stylishly messy thing going on and he's shaved since I saw him earlier. He wears a white dress shirt, open at the collar, with a few buttons undone. The stark white of the shirt complements his tanned skin.

On the stool beside him sits a beautiful brunette. Her extremely short skirt displays her long, long legs. Her tight strapless top is nearly too small for her huge breasts. I contemplate going to sit outside while I wait for the others so I can leave Peeta to his womanizing.

But then, Peeta glances over his shoulder and his gaze fastens on me. He leans in and says something to the woman. She slides her manicured hand up his forearm, stopping just below where he has the sleeves of shirt rolled up. He shakes his head, picks up his glass, and says something else. And whatever it is that he says this time she clearly does not like. Her eyes flash steel. She wraps her hand around the base of her martini glass and she flounces off the stool, strutting away on her stiletto heels. Peeta pivots on the stool and beckons me with a lift of his chin.

"Sorry to interrupt," I say, as I reach him.

"You're not an interruption. Not at all," he replies, patting the stool the woman just vacated.

"Well, she certainly looked interrupted." I glance around the bar as I perch on the stool. "Are we the first ones here?"

"Oh, yeah, we are," he says and I swear as he raises his glass to his mouth he hides a smile behind it. He takes a sip and sets the glass down on the bar. "What can I get you to drink?"

"Nice try." I sweep my eyes along the row of taps, searching for something familiar. "I can get my own drink. This isn't a date, remember?"

"You're not going to let me forget that, huh?" He watches me over the rim of his glass as I order a local IPA from the bartender. Hastily, he knocks back the rest of his drink and calls to the bartender, "Make that two beers."

"Mr. Mellark? Your table is ready." The hostess beams at him. Peeta flashes her one of his dazzling smiles in return. As I'm fishing around in my wristlet for some cash to pay for my drink, Peeta plunks down several bills, slides my beer towards me, and smirks.

"You can get the next round. C'mon. You heard the pretty lady. Table is ready." The hostess blushes and bats her eyelashes at him. I roll my eyes and grab my beer, following the hostess and Peeta through the restaurant. I'm happy to see that she's leading us outside, but my stomach plummets when she stops beside an intimate table for two overlooking the bay.

"I told you this wasn't a date!" I glare at Peeta. The hostess looks at me, aghast. I'm sure she's thinking that I must some kind of crazy bitch not to want to be alone with Peeta Mellark. But he ignores my outburst. He thanks the hostess and she slinks away, darting a glance back at us before vanishing back inside the restaurant. Peeta holds out one chair for me. Obstinately, I stand my ground, clutching my pint of beer so fiercely I'm surprised the glass doesn't shatter in my iron grip.

"Sit down, Katniss," he says, an authoritative edge to his tone. "I promise you this isn't a date. At the end of the meal you can split the check with me 50/50. I just thought it would be nice for you and I to get to know each other before the others arrive."

I grit my teeth and feel my resolve weakening just slightly. "And when would that be?"

His lips tip up into a boyish grin. "I told Johanna to tell everyone 9 pm. Give or take." Those big blue eyes search mine, almost pleadingly, as he puts his beer down at one place setting so he can show me his palms in mock surrender. "Not a date. Just two friends having dinner," he emphasizes. I sigh, feeling all the fight go out of me.

"Okay." I slide into the chair he proffered and scoot it in before he can even think about pushing it in for me. He takes the seat across from me and the wide grin that lights his eyes and claims his mouth has me offering him just the faintest smile in return. A mild fluttering stirs in my stomach. Immediately, I break eye contact with him and open my menu.

Once the waiter has taken our orders, Peeta raises his glass and gives me an expectant look. I lift my glass and stare back. "To the start of a beautiful friendship," he says. I nod and sip my beer, realizing only after my glass touches my lips that his hand is reaching across the table, his glass outstretched towards me. It hovers there for a second but then he pulls his arm back and takes a long swig from his beer.

"So, Katniss Everdeen," he continues, setting his glass down, seemingly unaffected by my slighting, "tell me something about yourself."

"Ah, well, what do you want to know?" That boyish grin appears again. As he blinks, I'm drawn to the sight of his eyelashes brushing his cheeks. They're so long. Women would kill for eyelashes like that.

"I want to know everything about you but we'll start easy. Favorite color?"

"Ah…it's green."

"I like green. Mine's orange," he offers.

"Is that why there's an orange racing stripe on your car?" I suggest. He laughs, a rich, throaty chuckle. I like the sound of it.

"Part of Mellark Racing's colors. Rye has one too. Just a lucky coincidence. That—" he points out over the water, to where the sun is descending on the horizon, casting an orange-gold glow on the bay, "—that is why I like orange. Sunset is my favorite time of day."

"It's beautiful." I watch the burnished waves lap gently in the distance.

"It is." He nods. I fiddle with the napkin in my lap to give my fingers something to do, because the way he's watching me has my heart tapping on my ribcage. Fortunately, at that moment, the waiter drops off a basket of rolls. I reach for one immediately.

Peeta keeps the conversation going while we eat our salads. It's surprisingly easy to talk to him. Of course, we talk about pretty inane things, like movies and television. I keep waiting for him to ask me about my father, because there's no way he doesn't know whose daughter I am. But by the time our steaks arrive, he hasn't brought up work at all.

"See? This isn't so bad, is it?" he teases. I feel my lips curve upward as I lift my fork to my mouth. I can't contain the moan of delight that vibrates in my throat as I chew the tender filet.

"Oh my god, it's so good," I say, once I've swallowed.

"Even though I know you're talking about the steak, I'm going to pretend you meant spending time with me." His eyes sparkle mischievously.

"That's not bad either," I admit. He rewards me with a smile I have yet to see on his handsome face. It's not that sexy, self-assured one and it's not the boyish grin he's been flashing at me all night. This one is so genuinely happy that it nearly takes my breath away.

After we're finished with our dinners, for the first time all night Peeta pulls out his cell phone to check his messages. I let my eyes roam up and down his bare forearms, admiring how tanned and toned they are, but I drop my gaze as soon as he sets his phone down beside his plate.

"Johanna and Delly and Thom are in the bar," he announces. "Rye and Darius are on the way too."

"It's 9 already?" I glance around at the lights reflecting off the water. Above us, stars speckle the night sky and the nearly full moon glows like a pearl.

"It's actually half-past nine. Guess it's true what they say about time flying when you're having fun." He sits back in his chair and folds his arms across his broad chest, fixing that sexy smile on me.

The waiter brings the check after Peeta and I decide to forgo dessert so that we can meet up with everyone else in the bar. True to his word, Peeta allows me to pull out my credit card and split the bill with him. Check settled, we stand up and he clasps my hand. "Thanks for humoring me," he says, stepping closer to me. "I hope now you know I'm serious about being your friend, Katniss." He squeezes my hand once and then slides his arm around to the small of my back, ushering me away from the table and inside to the bar.

I spot Johanna right away at a large round table near the center of the room. Rye is next to her. As he looks over at Peeta and me, he practically leaps out of his chair, thrusting his arm up. He holds a pint glass brimming with beer and somehow manages not to spill any of it in his enthusiasm.

"There's the birthday boy!" he crows. I stop in my tracks and grab Peeta's arm, yanking him back a step.

"It's your birthday?" He gives a slow, deliberate bob of his head. "Why didn't you say something?" I can hear the same incredulity in my voice that I know must be etched on my face as I gape at him. He shrugs and his eyes flit to my mouth. Then, without answering my question he strides into the bar, smiling and nodding at the strangers who greet him and call out more birthday wishes.

Still reeling a little from this revelation, I shove aside my bewilderment as to why Peeta wouldn't have told me that it was his birthday and follow him into the bar.

* * *

The next afternoon, after he completes his first practice session, I watch Peeta climb out of the cockpit. He pulls off his helmet and balaclava, scrubs his fingers through his blond hair, and fixes those blue eyes on me. When I stare more closely, I can see they're faintly rimmed with red, the only obvious evidence of last night's birthday bacchanalia.

"Good run," I say. Peeta's time put him three-tenths of a second ahead of Finnick Odair from Capitol Racing, and a full second ahead of the third-place finisher, Cato Wagner.

"She pulled to the left a bit on the final few laps," Peeta replies, setting his helmet and the fireproof hood down on the workbench. "But otherwise, she felt good."

"I'll check the suspension. Front or rear—was one more pronounced than the other?" I move towards the workbench to retrieve the jacks, but Peeta grabs my wrist and holds me in place.

"It can wait a minute. I, uh, didn't get a chance to say goodbye to you last night." I look down where his fingers encircle my wrist, and then lift my eyes to his in warning. But he doesn't release me from his grip.

"You were quite the popular guy. I didn't want to interrupt anything when I left."

Just before midnight, Delly had announced she was going to head back to the hotel. It was an easy decision for me to join her, given how long my day had felt by that time. I had intended to say goodbye to Peeta, to wish him a happy birthday, and to remind him that I still owed him a drink because I hadn't gotten the chance to do that. Everyone else was buying him drinks left and right. All evening long they arrived at our table. Glasses of expensive scotch. Shots of high-end tequila. A bottle of Veuve Clicquot. What he didn't drink he shared. I was a little in awe of how much he and Rye and Thom knocked back without showing the slightest sign of being intoxicated.

When I had finally located Peeta across the bar, there had been three girls hovering around him and Rye, all smiling and laughing. The tallest of the girls, a leggy blonde, had her hand on Peeta's arm. He had kept his eyes on her as she talked to him. A moment later, she had brought her mouth to his ear. I had watched the smile on his face remain fixed as she whispered to him. Then, she had brushed her lips across his cheek. That was the last thing I saw before Delly and I left.

"I told you last night you would never be an interruption," he says, staring down at me. "I just wanted to say thank you, again, for having dinner with me."

"I wish you would have told me it was your birthday," I say. His fingers start to caress the inside of my wrist. I ignore the little sparks shooting up my arm from the way he's touching me.

"Why? So you would have had dinner with me out of guilt? I wanted you to be with me because you wanted to, not because you felt you needed to." His thumb moves in a slow circle across the back of my hand. This touch feels too intimate and I quickly extricate myself from his grasp.

"I had a good time. I'd do it again. As friends." I make it a point to enunciate the last two words.

"Right. Friends," he echoes. The corners of his mouth twitch and I can tell he's fighting off a smile. He inches towards me again and I feel my back hit the workbench. I hold my breath as he leans past me, his body nearly pinning mine in the process, as he grabs his helmet and the balaclava. His eyes drift down the length of my body in a deliberate perusal before he straightens up, flashes me a wicked smile, and strides off towards the drivers' lounge.

* * *

My first official race day as part of an F1 team is like nothing I've ever experienced before. The energy in the garage is decidedly different than it is for practice sessions or for qualifying. There's the same excitement, the same chaotic rush of bodies, the same sounds and smells, but tension also clots the air, thick and oppressive. And there's a tangible divisiveness that I notice from the moment Rye comes into the garage. He doesn't cast a single look in my direction. Today, I'm the enemy. I try not to take it personally, though I would have politely wished him luck if given the chance. While Peeta finishing first is obviously what I want, a strong race and good finish from Rye helps Mellark Racing in the overall points standings.

Peeta breezes through a minute later. He aims a dazzling smile in my direction before he heads outside for the usual pre-race photo ops and interviews and fraternizing with the sponsors. From where I stand I can see him talking with a female reporter, no doubt dousing her with his charm. She beams at him and her hand rests on his back for a little longer than necessary when the interview ends and she predictably thanks him for his time.

He continues to absorb the attention lobbed at him. His behavior solidifies why he's so popular. Not every driver is so generous with his time and so gracious to the bevy of people demanding it just minutes away from the start of the race. But Peeta seems perfectly content out there, calm and cool and collected. I don't know how he does it. My stomach is a flurry of nerves and my heartbeat hasn't slowed since I entered the garage earlier that morning. Maybe he just doesn't get nervous.

The last person to approach him is an older man with graying hair. He has four gorgeous girls in tow, two on either side of him. The girls all wear tank tops that have been cropped just below their big breasts and leather shorts that look as if they've been painted on. I blow out a breath as the grid girls flank Peeta. The blonde closest to him angles her curvy body to press right up against his side. Peeta grins down at her as cameras flash. The redhead on the other side of him plants her hand on the Red Bull logo that adorns Peeta's jumpsuit directly over his right pec. I roll my eyes. There is no real need for these stupid promotional models but every Prix has them, another product of the overt chauvinism of Formula 1. Some grid girls are little more than glorified groupies, taking the gig in the hopes of getting into a driver's bed. Others actually make a career of it, modeling for calendars and F1 merchandise.

Eventually, Peeta makes his way back to his car. He tugs his balaclava down and fits it into place, then jams his helmet on. As he climbs into the cockpit and Thresh works on fastening him in, I adjust his steering wheel and activate it.

"Good luck," I say, though my helmet muffles my speech to little more than a whisper. Peeta locks eyes with me as best we can, given both our helmets. He gives me a thumbs-up. He's wheeled out of the pit and onto the track for warm-ups. I loiter in the pit with the crew, waiting for Peeta to return for his final check before he takes his place on the grid.

The Australian Grand Prix is 58 laps on five-kilometer circuit of streets surrounding Albert Park Lake. It's a beautiful venue. But it holds a special place in my heart for another reason. The turns on the course are named for famed drivers and Turn 12 bears my father's name, an honor they bestowed on him posthumously, five years ago.

My heart hammers faster and harder as each of the five pairs of starting lights illuminates. I hold my breath once they're all lit and count softly, waiting expectantly for them to dim. After eight seconds, they go dark and the race is on. I exhale.

Formula 1 racing only allows one pit crew for both of a team's cars. The secondary mechanics are part of this crew and they each have several other crew members reporting to them. They handle all the repairs during the race. My job is to remain in communication with Peeta, and with Connor. I could go back to the garage and watch on the screen there, but I opt to stay in the pit.

Peeta gets out to a fast start. He takes the first two corners with perfect control, and by the end of the first lap, he's maintained his pole position. Ten laps in, he has a sizable lead over the next driver, which happens to be his brother, with Finnick Odair and Cato Wagner vying for third.

I tear my eyes away from Peeta's bright orange helmet for a moment to appreciate the atmosphere: the packed grandstands; the deliciously loud hum of the cars as they whirr past; the anticipation that builds with each passing lap that Peeta maintains his lead. And he does maintain that lead, for the entire race. The closest anyone comes to overtaking him is on the heels of his pit stop, when Finnick Odair closes the gap to a few car-lengths. But Peeta turns it on and reasserts himself, crossing the finish line a full two seconds ahead of Finnick. As the checkered flag waves, the pit erupts into screams and shouts, and I race back towards the garage to join in the celebration. Haymitch grabs me and hugs me. Henrik and Connor embrace, thumping each other on the back. Delly wheels in a massive silver tub with bottles of champagne nestled in the ice. She catches my eyes and grins just before Connor envelopes her in a hug.

Peeta arrives back in the garage and hauls himself out of the car. When he pulls off his helmet and balaclava, his hair is nearly plastered to his head, but the look of pure elation on his face makes my heart soar. He spears his fingers through his damp hair as his blue eyes sweep around the garage, finally locking on me. I mouth "congratulations." His grin spreads and he mouths back, "thanks." It's the only exchange I get with him. He's whisked away by race officials for the whirlwind of activity showered on the winning driver, and I'm thrown back into the fire once Peeta's car passes the obligatory post-race inspection.

Four hours later, Thresh, Darius, Chaff and I finish stripping Peeta's car and packing it into its foam-padded boxes and compartments to be shipped to Malaysia, our next destination on the Prix. Thoroughly exhausted, the four of us take one of the cars Henrik has on retainer back to the hotel. It's been an exhilarating day and we'll do it all over again in Kuala Lumpur in two weeks' time.

Back at the hotel, neither Johanna nor Delly are around when I stumble into the suite the three of us share. I head right for the shower and stand under the soothing spray for several minutes, allowing my tired muscles to relax and the sweat and grime covering my body to be washed away. Once clean, I towel off, dress, and braid my wet hair. Then I head into the sitting area to search for a room service menu. Before I can locate it, there's a knock on the door. I pad across the plush carpet and peek through the peephole. Peeta stands in the hallway, his handsome face looming large in the distorted little circle of glass. My mouth goes dry and I fumble with the latch, finally managing to open the door.

"What are you doing here?" I exclaim. He flashes me his signature boyish grin and raises the bottle of champagne in his left hand.

"I didn't get to celebrate my win with my best mechanic." He cranes his neck and peers past me into the suite. "Are you alone?"

"Ah, yeah, I am." I moisten my lips and toy with the end of my wet braid. I'm suddenly acutely aware of the fact I'm only wearing a t-shirt—no bra—and a pair of boxer shorts. Peeta, of course, looks like he's stepped off the pages of GQ magazine, with his grey suit and white shirt and his now impeccably styled hair.

He gazes at me expectantly. "Can I come in?"

"Ah, sure." I step aside and as he walks past me, I catch a whiff of his cologne, that delicious mixture of cinnamon and musk. I close the door and start towards him. "I wasn't expecting anyone. Just let me go and change and then—"

"Don't. Please. Don't change on my account. You busted your ass out there today and you should be comfortable." His eyes slowly trek down my figure. "And I happen to think you look fucking gorgeous all natural like this." I make a face at him, but he just smiles at me and waggles the champagne bottle. "So, celebrate?"

"Actually, Peeta, I haven't eaten anything and I'm really tired—" He places his free hand on my hip and I feel the warmth of his fingers through the thin fabric of my shorts.

"You're going to give me a complex if you keep trying to avoid spending time with me," he says huskily. An unexpected heat rushes through me and my nipples stiffen. Shit. I hope he doesn't look down.

"I'm not avoiding you," I say. My voice trembles a little as I cut my gaze to where his hand is still touching me.

"Good," he says softly. "Because I don't like it when my friends avoid me. Now, I'm going to open this champagne and you're going to drink it with me."

"Are you always this bossy with your friends?" I ask. I mean it to sound innocent, but an expression steals across his face that makes my nipples tighten again. I see his gaze drift downward. Quickly, I fold my arms across my chest and shift my weight slightly. Peeta's mouth flirts with a smile and his fingers ruck up my shirt's hem. He deliberately grazes the bare skin at the waistband of my shorts as he removes his hand. I watch him cross the room and set the champagne down on the table next to the couch. He shrugs off his suit jacket and drapes it across the ottoman. Then he sits down on the couch.

"I, uh, was just going to call room service. Did you, um, want anything?"

"No, thanks. I had to go to dinner with my dad and Connor and Rye after the press conference. Dad's all about trying to maintain some semblance of unity during the season." He makes a face that seems to suggest he's not pleased with this arrangement, but I'm not about to insinuate myself in Mellark family matters, so I don't pry and instead I pick up the phone. After I order myself a cheeseburger and fries, I take a seat next to Peeta and wait for him to unwrap the foil on the champagne bottle. He aims the bottle away from us and I jump a little when he pops the cork.

"We don't have any glasses," I say.

"This is much classier," he jokes, taking a long swig from the bottle. "Cheers." He passes the bottle to me. I accept it but I don't take a drink yet.

"Congratulations, Peeta," I say, raising the bottle towards him in the best mock toast I can offer. "You owned that track today."

"It was a good start to the season," he agrees, his eyes locking on mine. "But I knew from the moment I left the starting line that the race was mine. I felt it in the car." He leans forward and rests his hand on my knee. His palm is warm on my bare skin, and I inhale deeply as I stare back at him. That husky tone is back in his voice as he continues. "You're my secret weapon, Katniss. Every win I rack up this season is going to be yours too."

My heart is now knocking wildly against my ribs and it feels like an entire swarm of butterflies has taken up residence in my stomach. I take a gulp of champagne, and when I swallow it, my throat fills with heat. The air is electric, charged with something that makes my chest feel heavy and my limbs feel weightless.

We sit like that, sipping the champagne, neither of us speaking, until a knock on the door signals the arrival of my food. I leap up and race to the door. When I return to the couch I make damn sure to put an entire cushion's length between Peeta and me.

As I dig into my food, Peeta flicks on the television and asks me what I feel like watching. Around a mouthful of cheeseburger, I tell him he can pick whatever he wants. He searches the channels until he settles on some old Bill Murray movie.

I catch Peeta stealing the occasional longing glimpse at my fries. I wave one in front of his face when his eyes cut back to the screen, and pull it back playfully just as he lifts his hand to take it. His jaw flexes and he cocks his head at me. Feigning innocence, I hold the fry out again. He grins and snatches it from my hand, popping it into his mouth. My eyes follow the line of his jaw as he chews. God, he really is so damn handsome. Unfair. So unfair. On so many levels.

The longer we sit there, watching television and laughing together, the more I relax and stop thinking about the fact that it's _Peeta Mellark_ sitting next to me. Eventually, though, I hear the click of the key panel and Delly enters the room. Her eyes go right to Peeta, then to the empty champagne bottle and room service tray in front of us.

"Hi, guys," she says brightly. "What's going on?" Her question is an innocent one, but there's a gleam in her big blue eyes that intimates she doesn't think Peeta's reason for being here is so innocent. All my anxieties about being with Peeta come flooding back. Instinctively, I lean my body away from his.

"I stopped by to thank Katniss for her work today and celebrate my win with her," Peeta says. "Did you go out with Rye and Jo?"

Delly laughs. "Yeah. I left them at the bar. I don't know who was playing wingman for whom. Not that either one really needs the help."

I don't know why I suddenly feel uncomfortable, as if Delly has caught Peeta and me in the act of something that's anything but two friends watching a movie together, but I don't need any rumors starting to circulate about Peeta and me, especially with what I know about the incident with Gloss and Cashmere. With Johanna's warning ringing in my ears, I click off the television and stand up, feigning a tired stretch. As I do, my shirt rises and I feel Peeta's gaze hone in the slice of my stomach that's exposed. Hastily, I drop my arms and grab the tray and the empty bottle. I carry them across the room and balance the tray on my knee as I open the door and set the bottle on the tray, leaving both outside to be picked up. I lean against the door and fix Peeta with a pointed look. He challenges me with a look of his own, but a moment later, he stands and grabs his jacket from the ottoman.

"I should get going. You ladies probably have an early flight tomorrow."

Delly pipes up, "We do! You?" Peeta shrugs.

"I'll take the jet. But I might stick around here for a day or two. Don't have any obligations until that sponsor dinner." He strolls towards Delly and brushes his lips against her cheek. Then he approaches me.

"See you soon." That's all he says before striding past me into the hall.

As I climb into bed a little while later, I find myself wondering what would make Peeta want to stay behind in Australia rather than going right to Malaysia with the rest of the team. My mind wanders to the woman in the bar last night, the one who I saw Peeta with right before I left. An uneasy feeling creeps into my bones, but I immediately shake it off. Peeta can do whatever he wants. I'm the last person who should be concerned with his whereabouts and what he does when he's not racing.

* * *

 _Thank you for reading. ~C_


	3. Chapter 3—Kuala Lumpur & China

_**Author's Note—**_ _I've got a few more scenes written for this, so I hope to have the next "chapter" up in a week or two. Thanks for your patience in awaiting updates._

 _Though I've never been to Malaysia, I've done my research, and yet I'm sure there are a few minor inconsistencies that I will chalk up to creative licensing. The same goes for all subsequent locations on the Prix, even the ones that I've been lucky enough to visit._

 _Thanks, as always, to El, the inspiration for this story and the encouragement behind it. LY. As stated, all mistakes are mine!_

* * *

 **~*~** _ **Kuala Lumpur~*~**_

 _ **Malaysian Grand Prix**_

 _ **Late March/Early April**_

* * *

"This is the last favor I grant you, got it, old man?" I grimace at the throb in the arch of my foot from the painful heels I'm wearing. Haymitch grins at me, swallows a nip of his contraband bourbon, and slides his flask back inside his tuxedo jacket.

"You'll eat well, sweetheart, all at the expenses of the sponsors. Trust me, you'll thank me in the morning." He pauses in the middle of the lobby, turning me to face him. His expression softens and he clears his throat. "You look beautiful, kid. You clean up nice."

"Shut up, Haymitch." But I give him a smile as I smooth out a wrinkle in the silky black evening gown. Then I dart a glimpse down at my chest, making sure my breasts are safely tucked inside the dress. The plunging neckline is daring, more than what I'd normally favor, but that's what I get for shopping with Johanna and Delly. A few strategically placed compliments to bolster my self-confidence was all it took to get me to buy the gown. But now that I'm actually wearing the thing for more than two minutes in a fitting room, I'm acutely aware of the slit that exposes my legs with each step and the fact that I'm going to have to do constant boob checks all night long.

Of course, the bad decisions go back further than my shopping jaunt. I never should have agreed to accompany Haymitch to this black-tie sponsor dinner when he asked me for a favor the other day. He had fed me some story about how my presence there would be good for publicity and how it might amp up sponsorship for Mellark Racing from companies with female CEOs. My uncle knows how to work a guilt trip better than anyone I know, though from what I've seen so far, Peeta might give him a run for his money in that department.

Speaking of Peeta, I haven't seen him since I left Australia. I expect he'll be around tonight, because sponsor events are a major part of a team's drivers' contractual obligations, but as Haymitch and I enter the Grand Ballroom of the Mandarin Oriental I don't see Peeta anywhere. My eyes roam the crowded room, searching for familiar face, until I spy Henrik Mellark. He's standing with a petite blonde woman who appears to be in her forties. Or maybe she's older and has had really good work done. She's wearing a dress that would probably be more appropriate for someone half her age, but I can't deny she's pretty.

"There's Hank. Let's get this over with," Haymitch says. I give him a look, confused by his choice of words. "Effie has been dying to meet you," he adds.

"Effie?" I ask. I feel like I've heard that name before. Haymitch scowls.

"The woman with Henrik. Effie Trinket. His sister. Delly's mom. Technically she's part of Mellark Racing but she only surfaces at these stuffy events. When she's not blowing thousands of dollars at expensive boutiques around the globe, she's on the prowl for Husband #4."

"Haymitch," Henrik acknowledges us as we approach him and his sister. "And Katniss. Lovely to see you this evening. Effie, this is Katniss Everdeen, Peeta's new chief mechanic." Effie looks me up and down. When she blinks, I notice that her mile-long eyelashes—apparently those are in the Mellark genes—are adorned with tiny jewels. Her glossy pink lips split into a wide smile, revealing blindingly whitened teeth.

"Well, aren't you just stunning!" she coos to me. "Oh, you were right, Henrik, she is a knockout! Hello, dear." She leans in and I remain frozen in place as she graces both my cheeks with air-kisses. Then she slices her eyes to my right. "Hello, Haymitch," she says dryly.

"Effie," he grunts out.

"Aunt Effie, here's your wine." Connor hands Effie a glass of red wine and then turns to me. "Hey, Katniss. You look great!" He takes a pull off a bottle of Heineken.

"I'm going to the bar," Haymitch begins.

"Surprise, surprise," Effie says under her breath. I wait for Haymitch to pierce her with his infamous icy stare, but he shows no reaction at all. Instead, he ignores her and asks me what I'm drinking. I glance around. Not a single woman that I can see has anything but wine or a martini glass in hand. Oh well. Might as well be a rebel. I tell him to bring me a Heineken. It's not one of my favorite beers, but it's one of Mellark's sponsors so I guess I should be seen drinking it. Connor grins at me and tips his bottle towards me. I pretend I don't see Effie wrinkle her nose at my choice.

For the better part of the next hour, the executive board of Mellark Racing filters in. I'm introduced to wives and girlfriends who are definitely too young for their significant others. I smile and nod politely and pretend like I wouldn't rather be on the couch in my hotel room, or God forbid, even clubbing with Delly and Johanna.

I'm having a conversation with Connor about good restaurants in the area when out of the corner of my eye I spot Peeta striding into the ballroom. He's not alone. Clinging to his arm is a beautiful blonde who I recognize as a judge on one of those dopey dancing shows with all the washed-up celebrities. His blue eyes land on me. An unreadable expression flits across his handsome face. I give him a tight-lipped smile and turn my attention back to his brother.

"Ah, there's Hotshot. Finally," Connor jokes and motions to where Peeta and his date are socializing with more people I don't recognize.

"I didn't know Peeta was seeing anyone." Ugh. I cringe. God I hope that sounded casual. I sip my beer and try to avoid looking over at Peeta.

"Oh, he's not. That's total PR." Connor jerks his head towards Peeta and the blonde. "Effie thinks if Peeta plays nice with Cressida Anderssen, it will secure Rye a spot on _Let's Go Dancing_ next season."

"Why doesn't Rye go out with her, then?" The question springs forth before I can think twice about whether I should be asking it. I don't want to be nosy, especially not where team politics are involved, but the whole thing sounds foolish to me. Connor shrugs.

"I'm not really sure." He laughs. "I think Effie's reasoning is if Peeta's name gets out there to the press and it doesn't pan out, no harm no foul. And then she offers up Rye, who is the one she really wants to do the show. Peeta gets enough publicity on his own."

It still sounds incredibly stupid and pointless, but I keep that comment to myself. I actually feel a pang of sympathy for Peeta. I hadn't ever really stopped to consider just how much bullshitting he has to do. Not that he looks too miserable with Cressida. They actually make a very striking couple. I chase the sour taste that sits on my tongue with a long gulp of my beer.

"You need another?" He shows me his nearly empty bottle. I nod and he grins. "Be right back." Connor walks off. Left alone, I can't help it and my eyes stray towards Peeta. I see him, Cressida still clutching his arm, making his way towards his father. I sigh and tuck a stray curl behind my ear.

"So, you're Mellark's new mechanic." I spin around and find myself looking right into a pair of sea green eyes. "Finnick Odair," he offers, as if he needs an introduction, and grins at me, flashing the dimples he's famous for.

Finnick Odair is Capitol Racing's top driver. Like Peeta, Finnick is impossibly attractive and if the tabloids are to believed has left just as many, if not more, women in his wake.

"Katniss Everdeen," I say with a polite smile.

"Oh, I know." He pops a shrimp into his mouth. He makes no effort to conceal the fact he's checking me out as he chews. His eyes roam up and down my body. He swallows his mouthful and the grin returns. "Very nice. Mellark must be having a killer time keeping it in his pants with you around."

"Peeta's a complete professional," I reply, even if it is a tiny white lie.

"Funny, that's exactly what I've been hearing about you. What a consummate professional you are. What precise work you do. People are talking about you, Katniss Everdeen. It's a shame Mellark beat me to you."

"But I did and she's mine. So back the fuck off, Odair." Out of nowhere, Peeta appears at my side. I feel his arm wind around my waist. His hand settles on my hip, his fingers splaying outward. This close to him I can smell his cologne. I swear just inhaling that spicy, sensual scent awakens parts of my body that have no business being awake right now.

"Chill out, Mellark. I was just making the lady's acquaintance." Finnick leans forward, takes my hand, and lifts it to his lips. "Welcome to Formula 1, Miss Everdeen."

Peeta tugs me backward. "I think it's time for a dance. Katniss?" Her gives me no chance to object, effectively yanking my hand out of Finnick's grasp and leading me away from him. Peeta guides me out onto the moderately crowded dance floor.

"What was that all about?" he asks in a low growl as he slides his arms around my waist. Because I don't want to cause a scene, I loop my arms around his neck and start to dance with him, but he needs to know that I'm not thrilled with his caveman-like behavior. I'm not his to claim.

"Where's your date?" I fire back, lifting my chin to him. He urges me closer to him. My breath hitches in my throat as his fingers flit up my spine.

"Finnick Odair is a good guy. A bit of a showoff. Nice enough. But we have no allies in Formula 1. Not during race season," Peeta replies, dodging my question as easily as I evaded his. "Stay away from him."

Something about the authoritative tone of his voice feels very territorial, and possessive. In reality it should piss me off more than it turns me on, so I ignore the pleasurable clench of my stomach and mentally prepare a comeback—since the first one that popped into my head was "you're not the boss of me," and he is, more or less—when his expression shifts and his blue eyes soften.

"I haven't had the chance to tell you that you look absolutely beautiful tonight," he murmurs.

"Thanks." It comes out breathier than I had intended. I'm a bit on edge being in his arms. I feel like all eyes in the room are on us and I can only imagine the gossip that we're stirring up. I see Peeta's Adam's apple bob as he swallows.

"This dress is fucking incredible and it looks even more incredible on you," he adds, his fingers gently rubbing at the fabric, on my right hip. I stiffen and swallow hard. "Relax," he whispers and laughs softly at the inquisitive look that I know must be plastered on my face. "You're all tense. Is it that bad dancing with me?"

"N-no. I just…I wouldn't want people to talk, you know?"

He gives a dismissive purse of his lips. "I don't care if people talk. I'm used to it. Part of the business and all. There would be worst things than waking up tomorrow and seeing myself on the cover of some tabloid rag pictured with the sexiest woman in the world."

I shake my head. "But I care if people talk. I don't need people making insinuations about how I got my job or—"

"Fuck 'em," Peeta interrupts. "You can't control the shitty things people are going to think or the bullshit the tabloids are going to run. You know the truth. I know the truth. That's all that matters."

"And what is that?" I ask.

"The truth, you mean?" he asks. I nod. His hand ventures up and down the exposed skin on my back. One finger travels up to the nape of my neck. As he starts to gently massage the base of my skull, my whole body shudders.

"The truth is, Katniss, you are the sexiest woman I've ever met. You don't even know how sexy you are, and that only makes you even sexier. Since the first day we met I've been thinking of nothing but you." Though his words tie my insides into a knot of desire, I open my mouth to protest. "Let me finish," he insists. Wordlessly, I nod and try not to think about how good his fingers feel kneading my scalp.

"I've thought about what your mouth would taste like if I could kiss you the way I want to kiss you. What your moans would sound like if I could touch you the way I want to touch you. What you'd feel like coming on my cock if I could fuck you the way I'm dying to fuck you."

"Peeta—" His name leaves my lips in a breathless huff. I'm pretty sure I've never been as turned on as I am right at this moment. My entire body is strung like an instrument and every word out of Peeta's mouth is a bow playing me perfectly. I know the tiny thong beneath my dress is soaked. My pebbled nipples graze the silk of my dress, aching to be freed, to be touched.

"Let me finish. I've thought about these things. Over and over and over, again and again. But that's all I can do—think about them. I can't _do_ these things, Katniss, because you're the one woman in this fucking world that I can't have." I can hear the genuine anguish choking his voice as he speaks. For a hot second I want to be reckless and forget my stupid oath not to get involved with a driver and kiss him, give in to his desire, just to make his pain go away.

"I'm sorry, Peeta, I—" I begin, but he cuts me off.

"What are you sorry for? You didn't sign the fucking contract that forbids me to sleep with you."

I blink. "What?" His fingers glide along the zipper of my gown, almost teasingly, as if he's tormenting both of us with what might be if things were different. I have a fleeting vision of him sliding that zipper downward, his tongue tracing my spine as the gown falls away. I hastily shake away the image before my temperature can ricochet any higher and my underwear can get any wetter.

"My contract with Mellark Racing," he says bitterly. "This season there's a clause that says I can't sleep with our employees. And since Delly is my cousin and Johanna wouldn't fuck me unless I was the last man on Earth and the fate of the human race depended on it, that only leaves you as off-limits to me."

"Oh." My mind reels from this revelation. I guess in a way it makes things easier to hold myself to my vow not to get involved with Peeta—a driver _and_ my employer—if he's equally determined not to cross the line of demarcation between friends and lovers.

"I meant everything I said just now. Every fucking word. I do want you, Katniss.

"But more than that I _like_ you. I like spending time with you. So, this friend thing—you have to give me that. Let me have that. Please." His eyes regard me hopefully, desperately almost. I feel that tug again, but this time it's tethered to my heart.

"Okay. Friends," I agree. That one word lights a fire in his eyes and he draws me closer. I swallow the gasp that vaults into my throat when our hips bump and I feel him, rock hard against my thigh. He brings my left arm down from around his neck so he can clasp my hand in his. He leans down and pins me with a look that I feel all the way to my toes. My knees lock. Then he aligns his mouth with my ear.

"Just to be clear, though, if you were anyone else but my mechanic I'd be taking you into one of those fancy bathroom lounges, locking the door, and shoving that dress up those gorgeous legs. And then I'd fuck you until you couldn't walk straight." He exhales, slowly and deliberately. His hot breath fans over my flushed skin. He flashes me a devious grin and says, "Thanks for the dance, Katniss."

And then he actually _winks_ at me as he strides off towards the bar.

* * *

The next morning there's a knock on my door. When I trudge to answer it, I'm surprised to find Peeta standing outside my suite. He looks rested, and naturally, ridiculously hot. He's wearing a pair of board shorts and a sleeveless shirt that does incredible things for his toned shoulders and biceps and hints at the sculpted pectoral muscles hiding beneath the shirt. A pair of sunglasses rests atop his mussed blond hair.

"Morning, sunshine." He grins at me and leans against the doorframe. I cross my arms over my breasts, since my camisole leaves little to the imagination and I can't trust my nipples not pick this precise moment to recall the erotic things Peeta said to me last night. "Thought I might persuade you to spend the day with me at the beach. And before you try and make up some bullshit excuse about work, I know the entire team has the next two days off, so you don't _have_ an excuse."

"What if I don't have a bathing suit?" I challenge, tossing my head. My disheveled braid whips over my shoulder.

"You can borrow one of my bikinis!" Johanna yells from her room. Peeta raises his brows at me. He steps forward and reaches around me to take my braid in his hand. Slowly, he slides my plaited hair down his palm.

"Now that I'd like to see," he muses. I exhale loudly and press my lips together.

"Why are you up so early?" I ask. I know for a fact that Peeta was still at the gala when I left, which was after one in the morning. The last glance I had stolen of him had revealed Cressida back at his side. The entire ride back to the hotel I tried not to let my active imagination dwell on the fact that, PR setup or not, she's a beautiful woman and Peeta's a guy with needs. The thought of him and her tangled together in his bed tormented me for nearly an hour before I succumbed to a restless sleep.

"Gym," he replies. I nod knowingly. F1 drivers, much like wrestlers, have to pay exceedingly close attention to their fitness. Any fluctuation in mass, whether it's a gain or a loss, can affect how the car bears the driver's weight.

He adds, "Besides, I was already up, so I figured might as well make the most of this beautiful day. And there's no one I'd rather spent it with." He purses his lips at me. "That's what friends do, remember?" I sigh. He's playing that card already. I can't very well deny him, not after agreeing to a friendship last evening.

Fifteen minutes later I've got my bikini on and a beach bag packed. I throw a tank top and pair of cut-offs on over my suit and fix my braid.

"Have fun! And you'd better having your fucking phone, Mellark!" Johanna calls as I pull the suite door closed behind Peeta and me. His mouth curves up in a smirk.

"I knew I forgot something."

"Peeta," I chide. He gives a shrug that shows absolutely no sign of remorse.

"If she really needs me she can text you. This is my day off and I'm going to enjoy every second of it." He looks directly at me as he utters those last four words. My breath catches in my throat.

I'm expecting the car service to be waiting for us, but as we step out into the blindingly bright morning, my jaw drops. Idling in the hotel carport, its red paint gleaming in the sun, is a Ferrari 488GTB. It's one of next year's models, not even on the market yet. I can only gawk at the awesome piece of machinery in front of me. I'm surprised there's not a puddle of drool at my feet. Peeta gently nudges my shoulder, presses a button on a keyfob, and opens the passenger door.

"This is yours?" I ask, dumbfounded.

He grins. "It's mine for the time being. I haven't decided if I'll keep her." He slides my beach bag off my shoulder and stows it behind the passenger seat. He offers me his hand so I can slide into the car. Peeta climbs into the driver's seat and takes a moment to get settled behind the wheel.

"Play your cards right and I might let you drive her later," he says in a playful whisper. He gives me one of those fucking winks before he lowers his aviator shades onto the bridge of his nose and jerks the gearshift. There's hardly a purr as the Ferrari rolls forward, smooth as silk.

Peeta swings by a little café to get us coffee and croissants for breakfast, then he drives us straight to a beach not far from the Sepang International Circuit where this weekend's race will be held.

The beach's not crowded, which is a plus, but it's still early. Peeta warns me that with the increased tourism because of the Prix, it will likely see more traffic as the day wears on. As we make our way down the sand to find a place to lay out our towels, I'm struck by the breathtaking view. The turquoise water sparkles in the sun. I've never been great at geography, but I do know I'm not looking at the Pacific Ocean, because Kuala Lumpur is on the western coast of Malaysia. Whatever it is, bay or sea or gulf, it's clear and inviting and completely stunning.

Once we've claimed a spot Peeta wastes no time whipping off his shirt. And holy shit, for the third time this morning I nearly forget how to breathe. His chest looks like it's been carved from stone. His muscles aren't bulky; rather, they're lean and toned and so defined that I can see every line of his abdominals. His outer abs have that incredibly sexy V-thing going on. And Jesus, even his belly button is perfect. My eyes are about to take a leisurely trek down the fine trail of blond hair leading right to his waistband when Peeta clears his throat and grins at me.

"See something you like?" I bite my lip and feign indifference the best I can.

"I've seen better," I lie. He throws his head back and laughs that deep, throaty chuckle that I feel right beneath my navel.

"Your turn." He cocks his head at me. Determined not to let his flirting undo me, I grip the hem of my tank and peel it up over my head. My eyes dart down to be sure the triangles of my bikini top haven't shifted and my boobs aren't exposed. Then I unbutton my shorts and shimmy them down my legs. Even with his sunglasses on, I can feel Peeta's heated gaze sweeping up and down my body. Unconsciously, my fingers wander over to my right hip to double-check that the ties of my bottoms are secure. Peeta wets his lips and moves closer to me, dropping his chin just enough to peer at me over the top of his shades.

"Fuck me, the things I could do to your body." A deluge of heat swamps my core. I dig my toes into the sand as I try to inconspicuously clench my thighs together.

"Funny, last night you said that fucking was the one thing you couldn't do to my body," I say, as squat down and rummage through my bag for the sunscreen, avoiding his eyes. I find the bottle, and rise to my feet. A smirk lifts one corner of his mouth.

"I love a woman with a sense of humor," he says. I ignore him and begin to spray the lotion up and down my arms. I pause to rub it in before moving on to my chest and stomach. My fingers splay over the swells of my breasts to make sure they're sufficiently covered with sunscreen. His sunglasses make it so that I can't tell where his eyes are, but I suspect he's watching me closely. He holds out his hand. I squint at him in confusion. He shoves his sunglasses up onto his head and fixes me with an innocent look that feels a little disingenuous.

"Friends put sunscreen on each other all the time. Let me take care of your back." He wiggles his hand in another request for the bottle.

It's a terrible, dangerous idea, but I find myself passing him the bottle anyway. I turn around and lift my braid, bouncing on the balls of my feet in anticipation. The first cool blast of the spray hits me between the shoulder blades, and a moment later I feel Peeta's warm hand moving in slow circles. Up my neck. Across my shoulders. Down my spine. My eyelids shutter and a sigh parts my lips as he kneads my flesh almost reverently. He hits the spray a few more times, his hand venturing lower. Another sigh slips out of my mouth when his fingers dip inside the top of my bikini bottom. Abruptly, I spin around and snatch the spray bottle from him.

"I-I'll get my legs, thanks." I avert my gaze and concentrate on the backs of my thighs and what of my butt isn't covered by my bikini bottoms. When I straighten back up, Peeta gives me a sly grin.

"Return the favor?" He motions to his back and turns away from me. I lick my lips and draw a shuddering breath as I angle the spray over the work of art that is Peeta Mellark's back. Swallowing past the heat in my throat, I gingerly skate my palm over his right shoulder blade.

"You know I'm not a fucking leper, right?" he volleys, twisting his head around to meet my gaze. "Go ahead and touch me, Katniss." He says my name like its the most erotic thing in the world, his tongue leisurely caressing the last syllable. I close my eyes briefly, gather my composure, and plant my hand on his shoulder blade again. His skin is warm and the muscle firm to the touch. I curl my fingers over his shoulder, massaging the sunscreen into his skin.

It takes all my restraint to go slowly enough to insure I thoroughly cover his back but quickly enough that I don't give myself time to think about enjoying what I'm doing. When my fingers venture into the slight dip where his spine perfectly bisects his back, he arches into my hand. I finish applying the sunscreen and pull my hands away. He hesitates for a moment before turning to face me.

"Thanks," he says huskily. "Now I know what it feels like to have those magic hands of yours working on me." I shake my head at him and retrieve my sunglasses from my bag.

"You're really something else."

"So I've been told." He gives me that boyish, unabashed grin and begins spraying lotion onto his chest. I try my damndest not to watch, but I don't have much willpower when it comes to those beautiful abs and that enticing V that starts just below his hips. How many hours does he spend in the gym to keep that body looking like it does? This clearly goes beyond maintaining his weight.

Peeta suggests we lie down for a while and work up a sweat before going in the water. If he thinks his choice of words is going to have me conjuring up images of all the other ways I could work up a sweat with him, he's wrong. Nope. My depraved mind isn't thinking of that at all, not with him half-naked beside me.

Within several minutes of lying there, perspiration beads on my forehead and temples, and I start to feel warm all over. The air is thick with humidity and the sun's rays are relentless without a cloud in the sky to obscure them. The little old man at the bakery wasn't kidding about March being the hottest month of the year here in Malaysia. It feels like it's a hundred out, though the temperature in the Ferrari read 83 degrees.

I glance over at Peeta. He's taken his sunglasses off, but his eyes are closed, sunlight highlighting those long lashes. I can see moisture stippling the swell of his upper lip. His chest glistens as it rises and falls rhythmically.

"I'm going in the water," I announce, not waiting for a response from him. But as I trudge through the hot sand I see his shadow eclipse mine and he falls into step next to me. The warm water rushes over our toes as the tide breaks on the shore.

"This is so not like the Atlantic," I muse. My mind catapults to a memory of being little, clutching my father's hand and squealing in delight-horror as the cold waves punished our legs. Unconsciously, my lips drift upward.

"You grew up on the East Coast?" Peeta asks.

"Pennsylvania. I used to go to Ocean City, Maryland with my family when I was younger. It was nice, even if the water was never this warm."

"Does your family still live there?" I contemplate his innocent question. Considering the friendship we're forging, I should feel comfortable discussing my father with Peeta. But I'm just not ready to go there yet.

"Ah, no. My mom moved away once my sister started college. Prim—that's my sister—she's pre-med at Johns Hopkins. She has an apartment with a roommate." I wait for Peeta to pry and ask about my father. But he doesn't. As we wade out further into the glittering water, he turns the conversation to school. I tell him that I went to MIT, but I get the impression he already knew that. He asks a lot of questions about my college experience and I admit to him that I don't know anything about frat parties and ragers. For me, college was about getting my mechanical engineering degree so I can be exactly where I am now.

Then it's his turn to answer my questions. When I ask him what he would have done if he hadn't gone into racing, I'm surprised by his response.

"Cooking?" I exclaim. "You? Really?" He shoots me a mock wounded look.

"You don't think I could have been a chef? I would have rocked the fuck out of that big white hat." I can't contain the laugh that leaps from my mouth and it elicits a chuckle from him. "I'm serious, though. Maybe it's because I've spent so much of my life dining in restaurants, but I really love those few months of the year when I'm home and I can make my own meals." He tilts his head at me, his gaze thoughtful. "You really don't believe me, do you?"

"I…" I crack another smile. "I just have a hard time picturing it. Cooking is like the exact opposite of what you do for a living. It takes precision and patience and—"

"Don't let the cars and the speed fool you, Katniss. I can be a _very_ patient person." His gaze rakes up and down my body, stripping me bare and I know he's not referring to racing. I feel the familiar tightening of my nipples against my bikini top. His tongue glides along his lower lip before he blinks and raises his eyes to meet mine.

"Where, ah…where would you have studied?" I ask, hoping to snuff out the fire that's fast kindling between us.

"Easy. Paris. Possibly my favorite place in the world."

"A little cliché, isn't that?" I tease. He shakes his head and bends down, submerging his arms in the water. He rubs his hands up and down his arms, leaving water droplets riding the slopes of his shoulder and clinging to his biceps.

"I love France. There's so much about it to love."

"Like what?" I prod. "What do you love so much?"

"For starters, the fans there leave me alone. I can be myself there. I—" He pauses, as if he wants to say more, but then he asks, "What about you? Favorite place in the world—that beach in Maryland?"

"No. The garage." He casts a dubious look over at me and I feel compelled to defend my choice. "Any garage, really, I guess. I've known since I was a kid that working with cars is what I always wanted to do, and I guess being in a garage doing just that…it makes me feel like I can do anything. I feel at home there."

"Home," he says softly. Before he can continue his thought, a wave breaks. It crashes over my chest, nearly knocking me off balance. Peeta lunges and snakes an arm around my waist, holding me upright against him. We stare at each other, electricity sparking around us. His gaze flickers to my lips. My heart starts to thump faster and I know I should free myself from his embrace, but I can't manage to get my legs to communicate with my brain. It feels too good to have his nearly naked body pressed up against mine.

Peeta reacts first. He unwinds his arms from me and grins down at me. "Can't have my best mechanic drowning before race day. Wait until at least Monday." The way he so effortlessly diffuses the sexual tension simmering between us has my heart speeding up ten-fold. I have to act fast to keep it from sparking again.

"Please. I'm a great swimmer. I could kick your ass anytime."

"I'm gonna hold you to that."

"Name the place, Mellark." I plant my hands on my hips. He curves his palm along his jaw and rubs his fingers along his cheek.

"When the time is right." He dips his hand into the water and then lifts it, splattering my bare stomach with a spray of water. In response, I skim my fingers along the water, splashing him with more gusto. His laughter mingles with the lap of the waves, and soon, mine joins in.

Throughout the day, fans approach Peeta several times. He graciously signs autographs and poses for selfies with them and I'm left, once more, in awe of how well he handles all the aspects of his fame. He never once becomes overtly annoyed at the invasions of privacy.

It's a bit jarring for me, though, getting this taste of how Peeta has to live his life. In the early afternoon, I'm reapplying sunscreen (even my Mediterranean heritage isn't immune to the intense rays of the tropical sun) when I spy a man further up the sand, his camera lens trained on us.

"Peeta," I hiss, trying to discreetly call his attention to the paparazzo snapping photos of us.

"I saw him. Ignore him." He doesn't take his eyes off where my hand has stilled on my chest, mid swipe of rubbing lotion across the swells of my breasts.

"But—"

"Ignore him," he repeats firmly. "Unless you want to give him a show, give him something he can run back to his trashy rag with." His gaze travels up to my mouth, where it lingers for a moment before he steals another peek at my chest. I suck in a breath, and Peeta chuckles.

"I'm kidding, Katniss," he says, patting my thigh. Only, the flicker in his eye and the way his hand skims across my skin doesn't feel like a joke. I feel a sudden burst of anger at the fact that someone is watching our every move, and anything this asshole catches on film could be used against me. I can't very well shove Peeta's hand away, knowing how that could be perceived, so I narrow my eyes and inhale sharply.

"This may be easy for you, Peeta, but it's not anything I'm used to. Like I told you last night, it's hard enough for me dealing with the whispers and nasty accusations of how I've gotten to where I am in the business. I don't—" Peeta shakes his head at me.

"I know," he says tenderly. "I know what you're worried about, but I promise you, Katniss, I'll protect you. No one will ever question how you got your place on Team Mellark. If anyone dares to fuck with you, they'll be sorry." His tone is so fierce as he makes this vow that I feel some of the tension melt from my body. I believe him. I do.

"Thank you," I reply, offering him what I hope is a sincere smile of gratitude.

Eventually the paparazzo leaves, and we spend the rest of our afternoon in peace. Almost. Just as we're getting ready to leave, a young boy, who appears to be about thirteen years old or so, approaches us. By the looks of his bald head and his gaunt face, I know he must be going through some kind of chemo. He shyly asks Peeta for an autograph.

Peeta goes one step further. I hang back and watch as he rises from our spot, walks the boy over to his parents, and chats with them for several minutes. I see the woman shriek, and she throws her arms around Peeta's neck. When she draws back, she seems to be swiping at tears. He stands with them for a few more minutes, gives the boy a squeeze around his shoulders, and then strolls back to me.

"I think you made his day." I nod towards where the boy is excitedly talking with his father.

"His name is Amar. He's a huge racing fan. I gave his parents the necessary information to contact Johanna to secure three passes to Sunday's Prix." There's no boast in his tone at all and I feel a pull at my heart. This is the kind of stuff the damn tabloids and magazine should be writing about him. I don't think the world even knows the half of what an incredible man Peeta Mellark is.

As if he hadn't already chiseled away at that infamous reputation today, he further burrows into my good graces by steering me towards the driver's side of the Ferrari when we prepare to leave. I widen my eyes and gaze at him hopefully.

"Let's see what you've got, sweetheart," he says suggestively. Adrenaline spikes in my veins as I slide into the driver's seat, wincing a little as my bare thighs hit the hot leather. A minute later, Peeta spews a curse as he settles in the passenger seat and encounters the same problem with his hot seat.

I grip the steering wheel and feel my pulse quicken as he tells me to push down on the brake and he presses a button next to the wheel. The engine revs to life. I carefully shift into gear and back the car out of the parking spot.

"You should see your face right now," Peeta says, grinning. In response, I shift again and resist the urge to test the promise that the Ferrari can do zero-to-sixty in less than three seconds. The last thing I need is a speeding ticket in a foreign country.

The drive back to the hotel is too short for my taste. Disappointment floods me as I turn into the carport. Peeta instructs me to head into the parking garage, where an attendant asks us to step out of the car.

"They'll take it to a private part of the garage. Can't have her out in the open," Peeta explains, as the attendant drives off and we head for the elevator.

"No, she definitely needs to be somewhere safe," I agree. Peeta swipes his room card under a digital scanner and then pushes the button for his floor, where the Imperial Suite is, ignoring me when I ask him to hit the one for the 12th floor. He ushers me into the elevator and my breath catches when he backs me against the rear wall. I can smell the sunscreen and the faint traces of cinnamon on his skin. I fidget under his intense stare. My skin feels itchy all over.

"You looked so goddamned hot in that Ferrari. Do you have any idea what a fucking turn on it was watching you behind the wheel handling her perfectly? Fuck. Later tonight I'm going to have my cock in my hand and I'll be jerking off to that memory—the sight of you in that sexy little bikini driving my car." He pauses. "On second thought, I might have to use my imagination and picture you driving naked." Liquid heat oozes through me and my knees buckle. A ping precedes the elevator doors gliding open, and as Peeta backs away, still holding me in place with that molten stare, he presses the "12" for me.

"I had fun today. Thanks, pal." His tongue lingers tauntingly on that final syllable just as the doors slide shut. I slump back against the wall and press my hand over my rapidly beating heart.

* * *

 **~*~** _ **Shanghai, China~*~**_

 _ **Chinese Grand Prix**_

 _ **April**_

* * *

"Fuck!" Peeta yanks off his helmet, peels off his balaclava, and stalks across the garage, slamming the helmet into the wall. It clatters to the floor. He doesn't bother to pick it up as he paces angrily in front of the doors to the locker room. I purse my lips, debating whether I should approach him or remain near the workbench where I presently stand.

But Henrik makes the decision for me, as he walks over to his son and puts a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Peet, put it behind you. It's not worth getting upset about. Leave it on the track. You'll rebound tomorrow when it counts." Peeta whirls about. His usual tanned complexion is a mottled red, his blue eyes reflecting his fury.

"That fucker braked. He fucking _braked_!" He smacks the wall, an open-handed slap that has to sting. I cringe.

After leaving Malaysia with another win under his belt, Peeta continued his phenomenal performance with two good practice runs yesterday and one earlier this morning on the track here in Shanghai. But at qualifying tonight, he spun out on the second to last lap, swerving to avoid Cato Baxter's car when it careened dangerously close to Peeta's.

I had been watching on the screen. Once his car went askew, panic had smothered me for an agonizing second until I saw Peeta right the car enough to avoid a full-on crash into the barrier. The front of his car had grazed it, causing significant damage to his car, but thankfully no injuries to Peeta.

Peeta's still fuming, completely ignoring his father's attempts at comfort. "He should have been given a fucking penalty and I should be sitting on the pole tomorrow. Instead, I'm running tenth and Baxter's fucking second on the grid!" Sympathy swells in me. I can see why Peeta is so fired up. Brake-testing is a huge breach in track etiquette and Cato Baxter is precisely the asshole who would resort to it. He's about as reckless and rogue as they come in Formula 1. He's also clearly very good at getting under Peeta's skin. If Peeta says Cato braked, I believe him. I haven't seen him this angry since that day he argued with Seneca Crane, my first day at Mellark.

Henrik glances over at me, worry etched across his features. His blue eyes search mine. I take a deep breath and cautiously walk over to Peeta. He jerks when I touch his shoulder, but his eyes soften imperceptibly as they focus on me.

"I'll have her looking like new and running flawlessly for you by start time tomorrow. Promise. Even if I have to work all night." I smile through the pit that still stretches in my stomach at the thought that Peeta could have been seriously hurt today. Something flickers behind his blue irises, and he exhales, visibly relaxing a little.

"You're the best, you know that?" he whispers fiercely. "The fucking best." He reaches up and grazes his thumb along my cheek. "Thanks, Katniss."

"I'm glad you're okay," I say. "And like your dad said, you can hand Cato his ass at the finish line tomorrow. Get your revenge on the winner's podium." Peeta's mouth curves into a smile, but it vanishes almost immediately as his gaze drifts over my shoulder. I turn and see Rye sauntering in, a cocky smirk on his face. He doesn't say anything to Peeta. Rye walks past us and disappears into the locker room. Peeta's jaw locks and he stomps off after his brother. Henrik sighs and motions behind me, where Peeta's car is being rolled in. I nod, tighten my ponytail, and head for the car to assess the damage so I can begin work.

I'm still under the car when I hear Peeta and Rye emerge from the locker room, probably twenty minutes later or so, continuing whatever argument they began while inside.

"…such a whiny little bitch when you have a shit run," Rye says.

"Shut the fuck up," Peeta growls in response. Their footsteps pound on the garage floor and then I hear the door to Henrik's office slam shut. I try not to listen, but their voices rise, even with the door closed. I think about Peeta and Rye's antics on the night we were all in the bar on Peeta's birthday. They had seemed to be getting along just fine then. Still, it isn't uncommon for the top two drivers of a team not to like each other, and I suppose being brothers doesn't preclude a rivalry between Peeta and Rye, at least from March through November.

Peeta doesn't say a word to me when he leaves the garage. A ribbon of disappointment unfurls in me. I guess I expected him to come over and offer up his usual flirtatious comments, or at the very least, to say goodbye. I shake off the slight and focus back on fixing his car. I work for five hours straight, finishing all the necessary repairs just before ten o'clock. All that remains are the safety checks, which I'll do in the morning. The race doesn't start until two, so I'll have plenty of time, especially if I get some rest tonight and get to the track early tomorrow. Satisfied, I grab my things and head outside, where one of Henrik's cars is waiting for me. Peeta's father has steadfastly refused to let me arrange for my own transportation home, insisting that he takes care of his team members.

The driver drops me back at the hotel. After I thank him and tip him, I climb out of the car. I arch my aching back and twist at the waist in an attempt to loosen my taut muscles. I push through the revolving door, emerging in the opulent lobby of the Sheraton Shanghai. I can hear music and strains of laughter and conversation coming from the bar nearest to the entrance of the hotel. I wander over in the direction of the bar, intending to see if they're still serving food at this hour. It's late but not obscenely so. I haven't eaten anything all night and I'm starving, as usual.

As my eyes sweep around the dimly lit room, they land on a sight that instantaneously robs me of my appetite. Peeta is seated at the bar, a small glass of what I assume is bourbon or scotch in his hand, judging by the amber color. Standing between his legs is a gorgeous blonde who I recognize immediately: Glimmer Stirling, the overly auto-tuned pop star who's been splashed across the tabloids with Peeta on several occasions in the past. Her curvy body is as close as she can get to him given the position he's sitting in. Her hands sift through his hair as she flashes a seductive smile at him. I let my gaze drop to where his hands rest on her ass.

Feeling like I've had the wind knocked out of me, I stumble back out into the lobby and somehow make my way towards the elevators. Numbly, I hit the 'up' button, and keep me eyes fixed on the glowing numbers, silently beseeching any of the six elevators to hurry the fuck up. It seems like it takes an eternity for the "L" to finally flash and the doors directly behind me to glide open.

Once inside, I suck in a gulp of air and bury my face in my hands, digging my fingertips into my temples. I close my eyes and the image of Peeta and Glimmer assaults me. Immediately, I open my eyes and another image materializes: the one of Peeta standing scant inches from me in the elevator in Kuala Lumpur as he promised that he'd be thinking of me as he jerked off. I guess pleasuring himself can't compare to having a real, live woman in his bed.

And why shouldn't he have that? I don't have any right to expect him not to flirt with other women, or not to put his hands on other women, or not to take other women up to his hotel room and into his bed. This is who Peeta is, and I knew this about him from the moment I was hired. Sure, there's also far more to him that I've learned since I've been working for him. Things about him that I definitely like. Things that make me want to be his friend. Things that might have even convinced me to be more than friends with him, if circumstances were different.

A profound feeling of sorrow washes over me. Because circumstances _aren't_ different and Peeta and I aren't ever going to be more than friends.


	4. Chapter 4—Spain, Part 1

**_Author's Note—_** _So this leg of the race gets a little lengthy. Spain will continue in the next chapter, which I have mostly done. I did not have a chance to personally address reviews from the last chapter, but I appreciate every single one. And thanks for your patience in awaiting this chapter._

 _As always, all mistakes are mine, including any small liberties I've taken with the F1 circuit. I have never been to Barcelona, so I've relied on my research for that._

 _El, thanks for your eyes, your ears, and everything else that makes you you. You're the best!_

* * *

 _ **~*~Barcelona, Spain~*~**_

 _ **Spanish Grand Prix**_

 _ **May**_

 _ **Part I**_

* * *

"I still shouldn't be jealous of her, right?"

I freeze at the sound of Peeta's voice and inch the creeper out from under his car, peering up at him. He tilts his head and fastens his gaze on me, moistening his lips. I try to ignore the little flare of current I feel from watching his tongue in action.

"Hi." I pull myself into a sitting position and then straighten up, rubbing my dirty hands on the sides of my coveralls. Surreptitiously, I sweep my eyes up and down his frame, admiring the way his black t-shirt stretches taut across his toned chest and how his dark-washed jeans sit low on his hips. He looks tanned and rested, and so, so impossibly hot. I try not to think about what—or who—he's been doing since I last saw him.

Peeta had placed third in Shanghai. He hadn't been happy with his performance there, but fortunately, the tight timetable —just one week between the Chinese Grand Prix and Bahrain Grand Prix—hadn't given him much time to dwell on it. It didn't give any of us time to do much else but work, actually.

After Peeta secured his first-place finish in Bahrain, widening his overall points lead, we all earned a much-needed and very well deserved week of rest before having to report to Spain for the next leg of the Prix, to be held two weeks from now.

"When did you get in?" I ask.

"An hour ago. Came right here to see my best girl." An intense wave of déjà vu crashes over me.

"I hope you mean the car," I say. He saunters towards me, that ridiculously sexy smile tugging at his lips.

"What if I don't?" He plucks the wrench out of my hand and lets his hand run up and down the length of the handle. "Have I told you that I love the way you handle my equipment? I don't want anyone else's hands on my equipment." He sets it down on the portable work cart. I roll my eyes at him.

"Do you always have an arsenal of double-entendres and sexual innuendos at the ready?"

He grins. "Nope, just for you. I like making you blush. Your cheeks turn this really lovely shade of pink and you do this thing with your lips that's so fucking cute. And then that gets me thinking of how much I want to kiss those lips, and I'm done for."

My stomach twists at the mere suggestion of being kissed by him. I say, "Then maybe you should stop bringing up sex around me."

That grin again. "Nah, I'm a sadist. Nothing good comes without a little pain." My pulse kicks up a notch as he takes my hand in his and his voice drops into that dangerous range that makes my stomach clench even tighter. "I've missed you," he adds. "We didn't get to celebrate my win in Bahrain."

"Ah, yeah, sorry. Right after I finished with your car, I flew home to see my sister for a couple of days before I was due here." He nods and rubs his thumb along the vein that runs up the inside of my wrist. Goosebumps scurry up my arm from the innocent but intimate touch.

"You didn't answer my question."

"What question?"

"The one about being jealous of my car."

"Oh, ah…I didn't know it was a question. It sounded rhetorical."

"It most definitely wasn't rhetorical and I most definitely am jealous of her. Because next time I'm sitting in the cockpit she's gonna be all, 'I've had Katniss Everdeen under me and you haven't.' She likes to taunt me." His mouth curves teasingly.

"Then I guess you'll have to live vicariously through her," I reply.

"Lucky bitch." His blue eyes dance with laughter, and I can't help but laugh too. On one hand, it's good to see nothing has changed anything between Peeta and me. He's still loading his comments with sexual undertones and goading me any chance he gets. But I have to remind myself of the epiphany I had in China and try not to let those suggestive comments and his heated stares get the best of me. And my brain definitely needs to do a better job conveying that message to the rest of my body.

"Katniss? Can I see you for a moment?" At the sound of Henrik's voice, I yank my hand free from Peeta's as if it were a hot stove. A brief uneasiness claws at my stomach, replacing the pleasant sensations that had been swirling around in there. Shit. The last thing I want is for Henrik to get the wrong idea. I swallow and nod and start for Henrik's office. I sense Peeta behind me, but I don't turn around. Sure enough, he follows me into the office and closes the door.

"I just had a very interesting phone call," Henrik says. I can tell by the expression on his face that it's a good interesting and not a bad interesting. "From HBO Sports," he continues. "It seems as if they're doing a feature on breaking down the gender barriers in auto racing, specifically Formula 1. They'd like to interview you as part of the scope of the piece."

"Katniss! That's awesome!" Peeta cries, enveloping me in his arms. It catches me off-guard, so it's less of a hug and more of me being crushed against his solid frame. That delicious scent that is so inherently Peeta fills my senses, and I start to melt into his embrace before I remember his father is watching us. I gently push my shoulder against Peeta's chest to give him a hint to release his hold on me, but I smile at him as he lets go, hoping it conveys my gratitude for his enthusiasm.

"I didn't give them an immediate answer. I said I needed to speak with you first," Henrik explains. He gives me a cautious smile, his gaze tinged with concern. "Is it something you'd be willing to do?" I press my lips together. Agreeing to be interviewed could be a mixed bag, especially if the journalist connects the dots and brings up my father. But the mere fact that Henrik thought to ask me before offering me up only endears me to him further. I know that my participation will give Mellark Racing exposure and positive press for being one of the few auto teams to hire a woman in the prominent role of chief mechanic.

"Ah, sure. Yes. Of course. Anything for the team," I say. Henrik looks pleased.

"People are taking notice of you, Katniss." He grins. "I knew you were destined for great things when I hired you. Which brings me to my next request."

Said "next request" is far more anxiety inducing than an interview. Apparently, there are a lot of sponsor events and parties on the European legs of the Prix. Given my increased visibility, Henrik wants me to start attending more of these events. I can feel Peeta's eyes boring into me as his father waits for my reaction. I remember what Haymitch told me when I had agreed to go to that dinner with him a few weeks ago.

"Anything for the team," I echo, pretending I don't notice the subtle lift at the right corner of Peeta's mouth.

* * *

"That's it. That's the one." Delly claps her hands with enthusiasm and her head bobs her approval. I tilt my head to one side and tap my fingers on my hips, scrutinizing my appearance in the full-length paneled mirrors. If the black number I wore to the sponsors' dinner in Malaysia was daring, this gown takes sexy to an entirely new level. It clings to me like a second skin, leaving nearly my entire back exposed. It doesn't plunge nearly as deeply in the front but still offers an eyeful of my cleavage. The tiny silver rhinestones encrusting the entire dress reflect brilliantly when they catch the light. Two sheer panels down the sides of the gown will make underwear a virtual impossibility. I'm not sure how I feel about that.

"He'll have a fucking heart attack when he sees her in that." Johanna smirks.

"Who will?" I ask, as I twist a little to examine my figure from the side, my line of vision narrowing on the panel and my bare skin beneath it. Can I really pull this off? I tap my fingers contemplatively on my hips.

"Peeta. Duh." Johanna rolls her eyes at me. I make a face at my reflection.

"I'm not looking to send anyone into cardiac arrest, let alone Peeta," I reply, making a move for the fitting room. Delly grabs my arm and gives me a sincere look, after giving Johanna one of reproach.

"Ignore her. You look gorgeous."

"Of course she does. I'd fuck her." Johanna grins wickedly. "But come on, Del. You see the way Peeta looks at her. _Everyone_ sees the way he looks at her."

"Peeta looks at every woman like that." I fold my arms across my chest. "Just a couple of weeks ago in China he was looking at Glimmer Stirling like that. More than looking, actually. He had his hands all over her." I don't like the bitter edge that skirts my voice as I dredge up the memory of the sight of Peeta with Glimmer. Delly and Johanna exchange a glance, and it's patently clear they're privy to something I'm not.

"What?" I query irritably.

"It's just…you guys would be so amazing together if I weren't for…" Delly sighs wistfully and trails off. I narrow my eyes, but I have to wonder what she was going to say next. She could be referring to the whole "don't fuck your coworkers" clause in Peeta's contract, but there's also a chance she's referring to whatever went down between Peeta and his who-knows-what-she is Glimmer in Shanghai. Not that I care if he's sleeping with his ex again.

 _Liar_ , I hear a little voice inside me sing out.

"There is no 'if.' Peeta and I are friends. That's where it ends," I say emphatically, locking eyes with Johanna. I haven't forgotten our chat on my first day of work, and I don't need her to think I'm going back on my word, even if she does seem to find sadistic pleasure in teasing me about Peeta. Then I stalk into the fitting room and peel the gown down my body. I locate my bra and panties on the plush seat where the rest of my clothes are, and hastily redress. When I emerge from the fitting room, I snatch a far more demure navy evening gown from the hook, leaving the slinky silver one hanging inside. Johanna shakes her head at me, breezes into the fitting room, and grabs not only the silver gown but three other dresses that I had vetoed earlier. I lift an eyebrow at her as she drapes them all over her arm.

"You're going to need every one of these. So even if Peeta doesn't see you in that fuck-me dress tomorrow night, you're gonna wear it sometime."

"Johanna! This is going to cost a—" She wedges her hand into the front pocket of her jeans and whips out a glittering black AmEx card.

"Henrik's orders. Now shut up and let's find you some "fuck me" heels to go with that dress."

* * *

Later that evening as the sun slips lower and lower on the horizon, I decide to swim some lap and burn off the disgustingly decadent dinner that Delly and Johanna and I had enjoyed after our shopping excursion. I have several options for swimming, as the Mandarin Oriental where we're holed up for the Spanish Grand Prix has several pools, both outdoors and indoors. But I opt to head up to the rooftop pool so I can enjoy the beautiful evening.

While there are a few people around, most are lounging poolside having cocktails and not swimming. I have the pool all to myself. I shed my cover-up and dive in. For the next hour, I alternate doing laps and just drifting around, enjoying the mild spring night and the heavenly feel of the water.

As I'm floating on my back, gazing up at the faint pricks of light starting to dot the dusky sky, I bump into something solid. I immediately feel my body being lifted up and held in place against a warm, solid frame. One strong arm snakes around my waist. I don't even have time to panic before Peeta's velvet voice hits the shell of my ear.

"I didn't fuck her." A shiver skates down my spine as my traitorous body reacts to his breath skirting across my earlobe. His finger traces my belly button and I shiver again. But then my irritation swells, sharp and quick, and I struggle out of his grip to whirl about. I fix him with an indignant expression.

"What are you doing?" I demand, willing my eyes not to give into the temptation to steal a glimpse at his bare chest. Because I remember all too well just how glorious that bare chest is, all lean, toned muscle. It's probably so firm to the touch, and his skin is probably so warm, and—

 _Fuck. Get it together, Everdeen._

"You saw me," he says, his voice even and unaffected as he stares down at me. "In China. You saw me with Glimmer Stirling."

"How do you know?" I snap, even though I know how he knows. I mentally curse out Delly and/or Johanna, because one of them is obviously the traitor that sold me out.

Peeta ignores my accusation. "She's just a friend. She was in Shanghai for a concert and we met up to have a few drinks. I was pissed about the qualifying laps and Cato Baxter and I needed to blow off some steam."

 _I'm sure you did_ is what I want to say. But I subdue the jealousy kindling in my veins and plaster a humorless smile on my face. "Look, Peeta, you don't owe me an explanation. Not about Glimmer. Not about anyone. You're free to date whoever you want. I don't care who you fuck. It's not going to be me. You and I are just friends." I throw the exact words he used to defend himself regarding Glimmer back at him. Something flares in his eyes, and his lips twitch.

A gasp frees itself from my throat as Peeta catches me around the waist and hauls me flush against him. "I. Didn't. Fuck. Her." With each enunciated word, he leans closer and closer to me, until I can see every one of those mile-long eyelashes and smell the heady scent of scotch wafting off his breath. "I need you to know that. It's important to me that you know that, Katniss." He waits for my response, but all I can do is release the breath that I've been holding.

"There's only one woman in this world that I want to fuck," he murmurs. "One woman who won't stay out of my fantasies. One woman who has this effect on me." He rocks his pelvis forward and levers my hips into his just enough so that the unmistakable length of his erection presses between my legs. Arousal lights up all my nerves simultaneously and I smother a moan before it can part my lips. I fight to keep my eyes from slipping shut when he rolls his hips a second time, a sinuously slow grind against me.

"You feel that?" he whispers thickly. "You feel how fucking hard you get me? All the time, Katniss. Every damn minute I'm around you it's like I'm a fucking teenager trying to keep my dick in check." I swallow past the heat swarming my throat and try to struggle out of his grip. It only causes me to bump against his hard-on yet again. A fresh wave of desire surges in me.

"Friends or not, it _will_ be you, Katniss. I will fuck you," he continues, throwing my earlier comment back at me. "I don't get a shit what my contract says. I want you and you want me and there's going to come a time when we just won't be able to fight it anymore. And when that time comes it's going to be so…fucking…good."

I've forgotten how to breathe. My lungs scream for oxygen. I know he sees the shuddering breath I take and how my chest inflates, because his gaze drops down and lingers on my breasts. He backs away from me and leans against the pool wall. My eyes wander along his biceps as he stretches his arms out to either side of him. Abruptly his smile loses its feral edge and grows playful.

"So, you were bragging that day at the beach. How you were gonna kick my ass at swimming." He motions to the empty pool. "Now's your chance."

"You want to race?" I say dumbly. I'm still struggling to rein in my libido and pretend I'm not thinking about what his stiff cock felt like rubbing against my core. I scan the patio around the pool. We're alone, save for one old man who is snoozing with a newspaper tented over his face.

"You said to name the place."

I purse my lips. "What's the bet?" He shakes his head.

"I didn't say anything about a bet. It's a race. There's a winner and a loser."

I cross my arms and give him a pointed look. "I don't see the difference. If there's nothing to race for—"

"You race to win." I sense some kind of a trap in his reluctance to make this about personal gain, but it's irrelevant. I'm a phenomenal swimmer. There's no way he's beating me. Bragging rights will have to suffice.

"Okay. Once up and down the length of the pool?"

"Sounds fair." Peeta agrees. I swim over and touch my fingertips to the wall next to him, poised to push off.

"What?" I grouse, when I notice he's watching me with amusement.

"You look so serious." He drops his shoulders and leans down, aligning his mouth with my ear. "And you're adorable when you're all focused, like when you're working on my car."

"Stop trying to distract me and take your position."

"You're even fucking cuter when you're bossy," he shoots back. He winks as he makes a big production of shaking out his arms and rolling his shoulders. The movement does amazing things for his pectorals. I lick my lips involuntarily.

"On your mark," he starts.

"Get set," I reply. We lock eyes and he nods. The competitive side of me can't resist yelling, "Go," as I launch my body off from the wall and my arms slice through the water. I twist my body from side to side, my legs propelling me forward. I approach the opposite wall and reach out for it, executing a somersault underwater to turn around.

I'm so focused on swimming fast that I don't bother to check Peeta's progress. Not once. It's not until my fingers are grazing the wall of the "finish line" and I surface, blinking water droplets from my eyes, feeling victorious, that I see him. He's leaning against the wall exactly where I left him, watching me with that same amused look.

"Congratulations," he says. I narrow my eyes at him.

"Did you not hear me say go?"

"Oh, I heard you." That gravelly inflection is back and dammit, it goes right between my legs. "But I'm a driver. Not a swimmer."

"I can't believe you!" I exclaim. "What the hell was the point—?" His arms pull me close, one big hand cradling the back of my neck. He lowers his mouth. His lips settle between mine, pressing lightly but firmly. Very gently he sucks on my bottom lip before drawing back. As far as kisses go it's short, but my body lights up like a fireworks display. This isn't good. No, it's bad. Very bad. With one innocent touch of his lips he has me addicted, craving more. I want his lips back on mine in the worst way.

"By now you know I don't like losing. But to you, Katniss, I don't mind it so much. I'll take that consolation prize every fucking time." He reaches down under the water. It's gotten dark, but the pool is lit with several underwater lights, allowing me to see him adjust himself, using the waistband of his swim trunks to trap his cock in place.

"It's not going to take me long to get off tonight," he says, hoisting himself out of the water. I gape up at him, still too stunned to move, and watch as he slings a towel around his waist. He smirks down at me briefly before he strolls away in the direction of the door. Then he turns back and meets my eyes across the roof.

"You were right, by the way," he calls. "You _are_ a great swimmer. Good night, Katniss." He disappears through the door. It slams shut with a resounding click. I smack my palms against the water, my body screaming in frustration. He's not the only one who needs a release.

 _God. Dammit._

* * *

There's an insistent knock on the door early the next morning. When I answer it, I discover Peeta standing in the hall. He grins and holds up a tray, where a bakery bag is wedged between two coffees. "I need a favor. And I come prepared to resort to bribery. These palmeras are to die for. They've even worked on Johanna."

It's a wonder I hear a word he says because I can't prevent my gaze from straying directly to his mouth. I've thought of little else since he left the rooftop last night. When I finally dragged my paralyzed body out of the water and made my way back to my room, I had lain awake staring at the ceiling, replaying that kiss over and over in my mind. And then I had started to wonder if Peeta was making good on his vow to jerk off. All it had taken was that conjured image of him, naked in his bed, his hand moving up and down on his cock, for my fingers to find their way between my legs. It hadn't taken long at all to bring myself to a shattering climax.

"I thought we'd have breakfast on your balcony. Can I come in, please?" he asks. I swear my lips start to tingle as I continue to steal peeks at his mouth.

"Oh, ah…yeah, sorry." I step out of his path and shake myself from my reverie. He strides past me and sets the tray down on the console table beneath the flat-screen television. As he opens the curtains, dusty shafts of sunlight stream into the suite. Peeta opens the sliding glass doors and retrieves the tray. He cocks one brow at me. "Coming?" I follow him onto the balcony, closing the door behind me.

"So. My favor." He hands me one of the coffees, which I quickly discover is actually a latte, exactly how I take it. I can't say I'm not pleased that he's aware of such a small detail as to how I like my coffee.

"I wasn't aware that I owed you a favor," I say, taking another sip from the latte. "What I do owe you is a drink. Two actually, now, since you bought me coffee."

Peeta laughs. "Forget about the drinks. We'll call it even if you do me this one favor. There's a drivers' party tonight."

Drivers' parties are one of Peeta's primary obligations. Race fans spend thousands of dollars to attend these exclusive events. In addition to the Formula 1 drivers, there are also scores of celebrities who make appearances. These parties are notorious for getting wilder the longer the evening drags on, but because they are fan events, Peeta and the other drivers are tasked with being on their best behavior all night. For them, it's not a party—it's work.

"Come with me. Please." He must see my eyes widen, because he rushes to defend himself before I can protest. "It's not a date. I swear. Delly's going with Thom as friends, too. I just…" He pauses and seems to be waging some kind of internal debate before he continues. "I need someone with me who I genuinely enjoy being around. Someone who will see through all the fancy bullshit and keep me sane. Someone who can still make me smile when I think I can't take one more selfie with a fan. I need a friend tonight, Katniss. I need you."

I chew on my lip. His plea sounds sincere. There's no trace of the cocky arrogance he displayed last night after he kissed me. It's a disarming how easily he can turn it on and turn it off. How he can sit here with me and act like nothing happened between us? A tiny part of me desperately wants to know if he's thought about that kiss as much as I have. Or if he really did make good on his promise to get himself off thinking about it, the way that I did.

"Katniss?" He lures me back from my daydreaming.

"I'll take that palmera now," I say. His blue eyes crinkle and he grins, passing me the bag. I pluck one of the sugary pastries out and take a generous bite. The buttery layers melt on my tongue and I moan in delight.

"Is that a yes?" he teases. I swallow my mouthful and nod.

"I told your father I'd make myself available for team functions. I'll go," I say. I wait for those baby blues to light up and that killer smile to grace his lips, but I think his face actually falls a little after I give my consent. He takes a long sip of his coffee and stares out at the city spread before us.

"I'll be at your door at seven," he finally says.

"Nuh-uh." I shake my head. Because him showing up at my door is a little too much like a date. "We can meet down at the bar. I'll be ready at 6:30."

"You room is on my way down. It's not a big deal if I—"

"6:30. Bar." I repeat. I'm not budging on this one. I have to maintain some semblance of power over this situation if he and I are going to stay in the friend zone.

"You're so fucking stubborn," he mumbles.

I flash him a triumphant smile and pass him the bakery bag. "Shut up and eat your pastry."

* * *

I don't wear the silver "fuck me" dress. As good as Johanna and Delly assured me I look in it, it just doesn't seem right to wear something so provocative when I'm trying to avoid sending Peeta mixed signals. He had said that drivers' parties are less formal than the black-tie events. People still dress up, but a lot of them won't be in tuxedos and evening gowns. I settle on a strapless, black lace cocktail dress and a pair of heels. Remembering that Peeta had also told me that the party is being held on a yacht, I decide not to leave my hair down and at the mercy of any breezes blowing off the water. I secure it into a knot at the nape of my neck, but I leave a few tendrils loose since they'll most likely escape the updo anyway.

Peeta is already at the bar when I arrive. He's wearing a pair of tailored black pants and a white shirt, no tie. He's left the top buttons of the shirt undone, as he seems to prefer to do. In spite of the casual look he's chosen, he still looks dangerously sexy. My heart flutters a little.

"There's my best girl," he says as he spots me walking towards him. "Or can I not call you that, since we're only friends and all?"

"You're incorrigible."

"I've been told." He laughs and drains the rest of the scotch from his glass. "Am I allowed to tell you how beautiful you look?"

"I think I can allow that." I smile. He stands up, tosses some Euros on the bar top, and gazes down at me. He coils his index finger around one of my loose curls. My stomach somersaults.

"You look beautiful," he says, his voice a velvety rasp. His eyes darken.

"You look pretty good too," I reply. His finger unwinds from my hair as he plants his palm over his chest and pretends to swoon.

"Did Katniss Everdeen just pay me a genuine compliment?" He flashes me that boyish grin, and I feel a blush creeping onto my cheeks. He gestures towards the door. I follow him out of the hotel and into the carport, where a gleaming white limousine idles. Peeta opens the door for me. I try and settle myself on the rear seat as gracefully as I can without flashing him. He climbs in beside me. All it takes is one tantalizing smell of his cologne and my pulse goes haywire.

It's actual torture sitting beside him for the duration of the ride to the harbor. Peeta initiates friendly conversation: about how I should be sure to visit the Sagrada Familia while we're in the city, and what a good tour guide he'd be if I'd go with him, but it's a struggle to focus on his words. My eyes keep wandering to those lush lips of his and replaying in my mind how amazing they felt on mine.

As the limousine pulls into the marina, he leans closer to me. "I'm sorry for this," he whispers. My throat goes dry, my mind goes blank, and my nerves erupt in anticipation. I wait for the brush of his lips on mine. I want it, no matter how wrong it is. God, do I want it.

But instead, he throws open the door, steps out of the car, and offers me his hand. As I exit the car, I see the actual reason for his apology: The harbor has been roped off and a red carpet runs the length of the parking lot, leading to the enormous yacht anchored near the dock. Fans swarm the barriers, clamoring for photos. There are paparazzi everywhere.

"Shit," I whisper. Peeta slides his arm around my waist and gives me a reassuring squeeze.

"You'll be fine. Just smile and look beautiful. That second part should be easy for you." I suck in a slow, steadying breath. As if my heart wasn't already in overdrive from the ride here, the chaos around me has it ticking furiously. Peeta grabs my hand. My feet feel like lead as we start to walk. I'm so overwhelmed by the whole scene that it's not until one reporter asks Peeta who the "stunner on his arm" is that I realize how much he and I must look like a real couple strolling hand in hand down the red carpet.

"Katniss is an integral part of Mellark Racing. I'm thrilled to have her here with us tonight," Peeta replies diplomatically. He smiles down at me and I give him a nervous smile in return.

"Can you spell your name for me, dear, so I can identify you when we run the photo?" Peeta nudges me and I blink, glancing over at the reporter who addressed me. Slowly, I spell my first name. As I give him my last name, recognition flits across the man's face.

"Any relation to the late Sebastian Everdeen?" he probes.

"Ah…yes. Sebastian Everdeen was my father," I say calmly. Even now, all these years later, it feels wrong to be speaking of him in the past tense. Before the man can get in a follow-up question, Peeta's fingers clasp mine with more pressure and he guides me further down the carpet. I shoot him a look of gratitude. He squeezes my hand.

The next reporter we reach is a gorgeous redhead. She directs all her questions at Peeta, ignoring me completely. It's not until her cameraman asks for a few shots that she finally offers a scathing look in my direction. Her stare grows icier as Peeta and I pose for photos. Before we move on, she brazenly sidles up to Peeta and slips something into the breast pocket of his shirt.

Nope, that's not jealousy seeping into my veins. I'm not thinking about taking her microphone and jamming it between her overly collagened lips.

It takes an eternity to make it down the red carpet. Peeta endures more inquiries about me and each time he offers the same explanation: that I work with him on Team Mellark and I'm a huge part of his success. My cheeks start to hurt from smiling, but I do discover that I like listening to Peeta as he speaks to reporter after reporter. I wait patiently as he moves over to one of the barricades and signs autographs. After a few minutes, a petite blonde woman leads him back to where I stand, and finally, he and I approach the yacht. I expel a long sigh as we ascend the ramp and board the boat. He immediately accepts two flutes of champagne from a server and hands one glass to me.

"You conveniently left out the little detail about the red carpet," I grit out.

"Yes, but I figured it would only make you anxious. Besides, you did wonderfully. Thank you," Peeta murmurs, clinking his glass against mine. His throat bobs as he swallows a mouthful of champagne. "I warned you that these things aren't much fun."

"Yeah, well, you always look like you're having fun."

"I'm a good actor." He winks comically and takes another swig of champagne. I stare at him, my eyes scanning his handsome face.

"You don't fool me, Peeta. You're not always acting. You weren't acting with the boy on the beach yesterday. The way you interact with your fans, it's genuine. It's why everyone loves you."

"Everyone?" he asks huskily. The look passes that between us has my nerves dancing and I lick my lips nervously.

"Peeta. Hello." We both turn in the direction of the rich baritone that's interrupted our heated stare-down. I recognize the white-haired, bearded man standing beside us: Coriolanus Snow, owner and chief executive of Snow Motors. My father's back-to-back Prix titles established Snow as a formidable contender in the F1 world. My skin prickles unexpectedly, not pleasantly.

"Mr. Snow," Peeta says evenly, shaking his hand.

"And who do we have here?" He directs the question at Peeta, though Snow fixes his eerie blue eyes on me.

"This is Katniss Everdeen, my new chief mechanic."

Snow's thin lips curl into a knowing smile. "Of course she is." He reaches for my hand and raises it to his lips. "You look so much like your father, my dear."

"Thank you." An uncomfortable sensation has lodged itself in my lungs and it takes some effort for me breathe.

"Such a talented driver, your father. Such a tragedy." He clucks his tongue.

"Yes, it was," I say tightly. Something about his tongue-clucking gesture feels condescending. I sense that Snow is belittling my father's demise and I want to get the hell out of the old man's presence, and fast.

Peeta must read my mind. "Nice to see you, Mr. Snow," he says, "but you'll have to excuse us. I've got a photo session that I don't want to be late for." He places his hand on the small of my back and deftly steers me away from Snow. Peeta leads me up a staircase, and then another, until we emerge onto the third deck.

"This is a good place for us to hide for a little while," he says, as we come to a stop in a tiny alcove with a balcony. When I glance down, I can see the whole front portion of the main deck. It's dominated by a large pool, but it doesn't appear it's going to be used for swimming tonight. Large lanterns float across the calm surface and arcs of water twist and spiral from some kind of fountain in the center of the pool. Revelers mill about, laughing and drinking.

"You really have a photo thing?" I ask. Peeta leans on the railing and gazes out at the Mediterranean.

"In about an hour. But I'm all yours until then."

"Thank you," I say.

"My company is that much of a gift that you need to thank me?" he jokes. He drains the last of his champagne and sets the empty glass down on the railing.

I laugh. "No. For getting me away from Snow. He's, um…intimidating? I don't know if that's the right word." Peeta's blue eyes darken imperceptibly and his jaw tightens.

"No, intimidating is a good word. Perfect, actually. He's a scary man. His philosophy is to win at all costs. His drivers are little more than a means to an end to him."

"Power and money will do that to some people." I sigh. "I'd like to think that he wasn't like that at first, that my father would have never raced for a cold, heartless bastard like Snow." I finish my champagne and clear my throat, rolling the stem of the glass between my palms.

"That's the first time you've directly mentioned your father to me," Peeta says softly.

"In all the time we've known each other you've never asked," I reply. Peeta's jaw flexes and he's silent for a moment.

"It's not my place to pry. I had faith you'd bring him up when you were ready to talk about him. When you trusted me enough." My chest tightens. It's exactly the right thing for him to say, exactly what I could have wanted to hear from him.

"Your father was a fucking legend," Peeta adds with a grin. "My father raves about him. Says he was one of the nicest, humblest men he'd ever met. Says everyone in Formula 1 wanted to be him."

"He loved what he did." I set down my empty glass beside his, and sink my teeth into my bottom lip in contemplation. Inhaling through my nose, I decide I _am_ ready. I'm ready to tell Peeta more.

"After the accident," I start, "that was the only thing that gave me any comfort. That he died doing what he loved. He would have been more upset about the other lives lost in the crash."

"You were there," he says quietly. It takes me a second to realize he's not asking a question. He's making a statement of fact; he knows I was at the track on that bitterly cold November day when my father perished. I nod.

"He didn't like us being at his races. He wanted privacy for my mother and sister and me, but he always allowed my mom to bring us to the American Grand Prix. Home turf and all." I feel warmth on the back of my palm and I look down to see Peeta's hand covering mine on the railing. My breath falters as he gazes at me.

"Katniss, you don't have to. If it's going to upset you, I don't want—"

"I'm not." Strangely, I find while I still have that bittersweet ache in my chest thinking about that day and my father's death, it's cathartic to finally talk to Peeta about my dad. I tell him about the gruesome chain reaction that began when a rival driver from a now-defunct race team collided with my father's car. The impact that sent my father careening into his teammate's car, as well as two others. The fiery explosion that followed. The image of my father's car bursting into flames, sending an oily black plume of smoke skyward, is forever seared into my memory. It haunts my dreams and invites ugly nightmares, even to this day.

"After that, I remember my mother screaming and then Gale pulled me away from the window of the luxury box."

"Gale Hawthorne?" Peeta interrupts. His eyes flicker with something I can't place.

"Yes. Our families were watching together. We always did. His father William was Snow's second driver. He was also killed that day."

Peeta bobs his head once, but he doesn't say anything, so I take a deep breath and continue, "My father's death destroyed my mom. She didn't want to have anything to do with racing after that."

"And yet, here you are." He smiles gently.

"Oh, she hates that I do this." I laugh humorlessly, thinking of the toxic relationship that I have with my mother. "But I wanted to do this long before my father died. And unlike my mother, I don't know…I felt myself even more drawn to racing after his death. It only solidified that this is what I was meant to do. I can't really explain it." I pause, but it turns into much longer than a pause, and silence stretches between Peeta and me. His eyes drift out to the water, a thoughtful, solemn look on his handsome face.

"This is your destiny, then," he says, turning back to me. His blue eyes have darkened, making me aware that his hand is still resting atop mine. Slowly, he lifts my hand towards his mouth. I'm frozen in place, watching as his lips graze my skin. He rotates my arm and places another gentle kiss on the inside of my wrist. Heat radiates through me, coiling into a knot just beneath my belly button.

His lips blaze a trail up my arm. When he reaches the crook of my elbow, he draws back and the lust glazing his eyes makes that knot in my belly throb insistently.

"Thank you for trusting me, for opening up to me." He kisses the corner of my mouth. It's just a whisper of his lips against mine, but I have to clutch the railing with my free hand to keep from dissolving into a puddle at his feet. There's something very intimate about the way he's touching me. It's fast threatening to undo me.

He continues to kiss me, soft little pecks as he brushes his lips against mine once, twice, three times, before he plants a kiss on the opposite corner of my mouth.

"I'd better get to my photo session," he says, his voice rough with want. "Because if I stand here with you for one more fucking second, everyone on this yacht is going to hear you screaming my name when I lift up that sexy dress and kiss your _other_ lips."

 _Oh sweet Jesus._ Every synapse in my body fires at once, arousing all of my nerve endings. My nipples stand at attention. My mouth parts unconsciously. The juncture of my thighs grows hot and wet. I can only imagine the dazed look that must be on my face. Peeta moistens his lips as his eyes lower to my chest. He raises his hand and very lightly rubs his thumb over one of my very stiff nipples.

"For me?" he murmurs. I gasp and tremble at the jolt of current that travels right between my legs. My clit throbs, impatient, needy. "Fair is fair," he says hoarsely, grabbing my hand and thrusting it down to cover his groin, where his erection strains against his pants. My fingers curl around his cock. He's rock hard and feels so big.

He whispers, "For you. Only for you, Katniss."

I'm delirious at this point. It's a wonder I'm even still standing upright. I've never felt such a primal urge to have sex with a guy as I do in this moment with Peeta. He's robbed me of any logic and replaced it with pure, wanton need. If he hitched my dress up and thrust inside me, I'd let him. I'd be at his complete mercy. I'd let him fuck me right here, right now, and I'd love every dirty second of it.

I hear myself whimper in protest when Peeta steps back. My hand falls away from his crotch. My bleary eyes lower to his erection. He shakes his head at me.

"I can't go stand around and smile for pictures with fans like this." He gestures down to the enormous bulge tenting his pants. "But this isn't over, sweetheart. I will have you."

The lust obscuring my rational thought starts to dissipate. I know I should remind him of all the reasons why us sleeping together is an inherently bad idea. His contract. My pact. Blah, blah, blah. But then he maneuvers us away from the rail, out of the view of the crowd below, and pins my body to the wall. He cradles my jaw in his hands and captures my lips. His mouth moves against mine with more urgency than before, rekindling all those sensations in a flash. All I want to do is stay here in his arms and lose myself in his kiss. The rest of the world can disappear for all I care. I scrape my nails along the nape of his neck, but as I swipe my tongue along his upper lip to attempt to deepen the kiss, he steps back.

"Fuck," he breathes out. His fingers traverse the curve of my lower lip. "You drive me fucking crazy. Let me go get this thing out of the way so we can get the hell out of here and I can get you alone somewhere." His index finger tangles into the loose tendrils framing my face, tucking them behind my ear just as my phone chirps from inside my clutch. Peeta groans and releases an exasperated sigh.

"It's Johanna," he says. I pull out the phone and confirm his suspicions. Johanna's message, in all caps, screams at me from the screen:

 _ **Today**_

 _ **Johanna Mason**_

IF UR WITH SPEED RACER PASS THIS ALONG. HIS ASS NEEDS TO BE PHOTO OP IN 5. EFFIE HAVING SHIT FIT LOOKING FOR HIM

 _ **Delivered 8:50 pm**_

I show Peeta my phone screen and he spits a curse under his breath, laces his fingers through mine, and leads me down the stairs. My body continues to hum with current. I wonder how far I really would have gone with him if he hadn't stopped things.

As we arrive at his photo session, I spy Johanna at the front of the room, where she stands next to Effie. Her eyes flit down to where Peeta's hand is still twined with mine. Hastily, I tug my hand away, but Johanna smirks at me as if she can read my muddled, lust-scrambled mind and knows exactly what Peeta and I were just doing.

"Hopefully this doesn't run too long, because I have much better things to do," Peeta says, his voice rough with want and full of intent. A flush claims my cheeks. He purses his lips imperceptibly, then strides into the packed room, stopping to chat with people along the way. Effie claps loudly and launches into an animated, flowery introduction of Peeta. He smiles brightly and waves to the assembled fans as if there's nowhere else he'd rather be. If what he intimated to me is true, then he's definitely a very skilled actor. He looks perfectly thrilled to be where he is.

I stay at Peeta's session at first, watching him. His eyes periodically flicker over to land on me, but after a little while I start to feel uncomfortable loitering around in the doorway like I'm some kind of fangirl. Judging by the crowd packed into the room, he's not going anywhere any time soon. I decide to go find something to eat to kill some time.

After wandering around for a bit, I locate an amazing spread of food in a nearby room. I pile a plate with all kinds of delicacies that I'd never dare order in a restaurant. To my surprise and disappointment, as I sample them, I discover most of them are disgusting. Caviar has to be the worst. The gritty residue lingers on my tongue long after I gag down a bite.

"Try the oysters. They're an aphrodisiac." I whirl about in the direction of the gravelly voice and come face-to-face with a smirking Rye Mellark.

"I, ah, didn't get to those yet." As if that wasn't obvious from the two untouched oysters sitting on my plate.

"They're an acquired taste. All this shit is."

"I guess you've had the time to get used to it," I say. He shrugs and takes a long pull from a bottle of Stella Artois. "You didn't have a photo thing to do, like Peeta does?"

Rye reaches over and snatches one of the bacon-wrapped scallops off my plate. My brows draw together. I was saving those for last. "Peeta's the golden boy," he scoffs. "My session is after his. God forbid we share the fucking space and do a photo session together." I hear the bitterness lacing his words and feel a pang of sympathy for him. He washes down the scallop with the rest of his beer and loudly plunks down the empty bottle.

"You've been spending a lot of time with my little brother," he says.

"Peeta and I are just friends." It comes out more defensive than I intend, and from the look on Rye's handsome face and the loud snort he issues, he's not buying it.

"That's a load of bullshit. No guy is ever "just friends" with a woman. Especially my brother. You can't possibly be that naïve, Katniss."

I bristle at his insinuation. "I work for Peeta. I know about his contract. There's nothing between us. Not like that." My voice wavers slightly as the white lie spills out.

"Ah, yes, the contract. Isn't that the ultimate cock block?" Rye's smirk spreads. "Like that fucking clause would stop Peeta from getting what he wants."

"What does that mean?" I ask. Rye shrugs.

"Peeta's a competitive person. He doesn't like losing. You're the ultimate game to him. Dad thought he was being smart building that clause in, but all he did was make you infinitely more appetizing." He pulls a grape off the cluster sitting on my plate and holds it up to his lips. "And everyone knows forbidden fruit tastes the best." He pops the grape into his mouth and grins. "Enjoy the party, Katniss."

I watch him saunter off as his words burrow into my chest and slide downward, settling into my gut, where they bob around like ice floes. Is that how Peeta really sees me—as a game?

My mind ricochets to my very first meeting with Johanna, when she bluntly informed me I wasn't Peeta's type. The implication behind her words mingles with Rye's accusation. Those ice floes in the pit of my stomach collide and fuse into one massive iceberg. Is it possible Peeta has been acting—with _me_? I feel cold all over.

I have a sudden craving for a drink—and for something far stiffer than champagne. I make my way to the nearest bar. When the bartender asks me what I'd like, my mind goes blank. I always tend to stick to beer; I'm hardly a liquor connoisseur. But I remember the heady scent of the whisky on Peeta's breath last night. I tell the bartender to give me his best scotch. He pours some amber liquid into a small glass. I accept it with a smile and drain the entire glass. It tastes awful, but I enjoy the burn that ignites in my throat and belly as I swallow it.

"Another, please." I say. The bartender appraises me carefully as he slides the second glass across the bar.

"Might want to sip that next one a bit slower. Better to savor the good stuff."

I tip the glass back and swallow the scotch, again in one gulp. "Not in a savoring mood, thank you." I fish several Euros out of my clutch and shove them into the bartender's snifter glass/tip jar, then I square my shoulders and stalk out of the bar. I retreat up the hallway and walk out onto the deck. I lean my elbows on the rail and stare out at the inky water. Wobbly patches of light dance on the dark surface. I close my eyes and breathe out. It does nothing to lessen the ache in my chest and the nausea in my stomach, nor does the scotch leaching into my bloodstream help.

I don't know how long I stand there gazing out at the water, but eventually I hear my phone vibrating from inside my clutch. When I pull it out, there's a message from Johanna, asking me where I am. I fire off a quick text telling her that I'm going to head back to the hotel, a decision I make spontaneously. I know I'm not ready to face Peeta yet. I refuse to be a piece in any fucked up game, but no matter how muddled things get between Peeta and me on a personal level I don't want to do anything to compromise our professional relationship. I love my job and I've worked too hard to get where I am. Maybe tomorrow, when I'm thinking with a clearer head, he and I can have a civil conversation and restore some boundaries.

Pulling up Google on my phone, I find the number for a local cab company. Using my meager middle school Spanish, I give the dispatcher my location, which she knows automatically. She tells me, in accented English, that a car should be at the harbor in about five minutes. Satisfied, I ignore the sharp ache that's still gnawing at my chest and make my way off the yacht.

It's a seasonably warm night, but I rub my hands up and down my bare arms, unable to shake the chill that's settled in my bones. Thankfully within a few minutes, headlights sweep across the lot, and I see a cab pause at the barricade. A minute later, security removes the barrier and allows the cab to pull into the marina.

"Katniss!" I turn and see Peeta rushing down the gangplank. I set my jaw and reach for the door handle. "Katniss!" he yells, louder this time, as he breaks into a full run. I yank open the door and start to climb into the cab.

"Katniss! What the fuck! Where are you—what are you doing? Look at me, please!" Peeta grabs me around the waist and spins me around to face him. His blue eyes search mine frantically.

" _Señorita_ , are you okay? Do you need help?" the cabbie asks haltingly, his heavy Spanish accent enunciating each word.

"She's with me. Sorry to have wasted your time, _señor_." Peeta holds me against him and shoves his hand inside his jacket, fishing out a few Euros. I'm able to free myself from his grasp when he leans inside to offer the money to the cabbie.

"You are Peeta Mellark! I am huge fan of yours!" the cabbie exclaims.

"Thank you," Peeta grits out, fastening his gaze on me. His eyes blaze with something that looks like anger. Really? Like _he_ has some right to be angry with _me_?

"I have been looking everywhere for you!" he growls, moving to slip his arm around my waist. I place one hand on the cab door, standing my ground, and taper my gaze. His misplaced anger fuels my own.

"Well, you found me. And I was just leaving." I facetiously pat the open door. Peeta leans around me.

" _Señor, usted puede salir ahora_ ," he says to the driver in nearly flawless Spanish. The cabbie says something back, and then thrusts a paper over the seat. Peeta takes it, scrawls what I presume to be his signature across the paper, and hands the paper and pen back to the cab driver. I hear the man enthusiastically repeat, " _Gracias"_ several times. Then, without warning, the cab lurches away. My hand slips, grasping at nothing but air, but Peeta quickly pulls me against him. Our chests collide and his arm locks me in place, his strength no match for me when I try to wrest myself free again.

"Don't fight me, please." The anger that raged on his face moments ago has been replaced by desperation. He looks like he's in pain, so much so that compassion flares in me and I relax, just a little, in his arms. "I've been looking for you since my photo session ended," he repeats, his voice becoming gruff, "so we could finish what we started." He catches my bottom lip with his thumb. I bristle at the intimate contact and step away from him. The space between his brows puckers and his face falls.

"What's wrong? Talk to me. Please."

"This is hardly the place for you and me to talk," I reply.

"Then we'll both just have to leave." He reaches for my hand, interlaces our fingers, and starts to walk across the marina lot.

"Peeta! No, you can't leave. You have to be here. You—" He stops in his tracks and wraps me in his arms, bringing his mouth to hover beside my ear.

"My obligations are over. _You_ are my priority right now, Katniss. And I want to know why you're running from me. What changed? Before my photo session, you were ready for me to do anything to you. Anything." His tongue darts out to trace the shell of my inner ear. I tremble and a little noise traps itself in my throat. He draws back and gazes down at me. "So, what changed since then, sweetheart?"

I shift my weight from one foot to the other and cover my mouth with my hand while I try to formulate an answer. I want desperately to know the truth about what Rye said to me: if Peeta really does just see me as some kind of a challenge. But I also don't want to do anything that will further feed the rivalry between Peeta and his brother. There's enough tension between them without me throwing fuel onto the fire.

"Nothing changed. I just…"

"You just what?" he says, coasting his palm along the small of my back. When I don't answer him fast enough for his satisfaction, he leans down and seizes my lips. His tongue glides along the underside of my upper lip before prodding more insistently, begging entrance. I quickly fall victim to the intoxicating power of his kiss, and I part my lips. His tongue slips inside my mouth and teases my tongue with languid flicks, daring it to tangle with his. As his tongue retreats and he starts to suck lightly on my bottom lip, I come to my senses. I push my palm against his chest, and stumble backward.

"We can't. Your contract. I work for Mellark. For you," I stammer.

Peeta glares at me, his striking features hardening like stone before my eyes. He blows out an exasperated breath. "Keep telling yourself that, Katniss," he says, "but it's not going to change how I feel about you. Not a damn." He jerks his head towards the limos. "Mine's the fourth one on the left." I don't move. He clears his throat and continues to glower at me. "Go on. I'm not getting back on the boat until I know you're safely in that limo. You wanted to leave, so leave."

I worry my bottom lip with my teeth while a new knot coils in my stomach. Part of me wants to stride over to the limo and not look back, but this job is too important to me. And I didn't think about him having to answer for me if I suddenly vanish. His father will be wondering where I went, for sure.

"No, I'll stay," I whisper. His jaw flexes and then slackens as he smiles faintly. I wait for him to offer me his arm, or for him to grab my hand, but he does neither. He shrugs his shoulder in the direction of the yacht. Silently we walk back to the boat, side by side—but also miles apart.


	5. Chapter 5—Spain, Part 2

_**Author's Note—** I could apologize a thousand times and never deserve the readers that have stuck by me in the very long wait for this chapter (or any of my chapters, really) and all I can say is sometimes life gets in the way and things that bring you joy—like selfishly writing fanfic—have to take a backseat. I cannot promise that another update will come soon, but it will come, as will updates to other stories. I have not forgotten, or abandoned, any of them. _

_To all of you who have PMed me and/or left kind messages with El on her Tumblr, thank you. To anyone who has emailed me directly, thank you. To anyone who emailed me on Gmail…well, I locked myself out of that account, so I apologize for the stone cold silence._

 _El, you remain my constant (if I can borrow a Lost reference) and I cannot thank you enough for your friendship and encouragement. ILY. All mistakes are mine._

* * *

 _ **~Spain, continued~**_

Peeta and I cross the parking lot. My skin prickles and I know it's not just from the slight chill to the spring night air. The tension between us is thick and palpable.

I'm torn. Part of me—the irrational part that wants to ignore logic and get naked with him every time we're alone together— yearns for to hear Peeta say something, _anything_ , to break this uncomfortable silence. But the other part of me, the reasonable part, knows that makes me a hypocrite. It's better that no words pass between us. After all, I had been the one to say this wasn't the time or place to have a serious talk. I can't have it both ways.

When we reach the yacht, Peeta stops. His eyes root me in place, sadness swimming in the blue depths. And confusion. Regret too. And I put them all there. I swallow hard and fight the urge to reach up and cup his cheek. I sense that he wants to speak, but a few seconds pass and he doesn't. I see his throat bob. He gestures with his hand, motioning for me to ascend first. As carefully as I can in my heels, I climb, with Peeta right behind me, still silent. All I can hear is the jackhammering of my pulse in my ears.

I board the boat and the first face I see is Rye's. His blue eyes—so like his brother's and yet so unlike them–sharpen with comprehension. Johanna is with him. Her gaze sweeps over Peeta and me too, contemplative and curious.

"Well, well, well. Where were you two?" Rye's condescending tone implies he not only suspects exactly where Peeta and I were, but what he thinks we were doing.

"Katniss wasn't feeling well," Peeta replies. He gives me a genuine, sympathetic smile that lends credence to the lie he effortlessly unspools. "She wanted to go for a walk and I didn't want her out there alone." He nods his head towards the marina lot.

Rye gives me a patronizing grin. "Must have been those oysters," he says. Out of the corner of my eye I see Peeta stiffen. His right hand furls into a fist. His jaw clenches. HE clearly didn't miss Rye's implication that his brother was alone with me at some point.

"No," I reply, refusing to play into Rye's hands. "Just felt a little lightheaded. Needed to get some air."

"Well, lucky for you my baby brother is such a gentleman." Sarcasm coats Rye's words. Peeta's expression darkens like a violent summer squall.

"Fuck off, Rye," he growls. And then he stalks away, disappearing up the corridor without another glance back at us. Rye's smirk fades and he shrugs. Then he takes a swig from his bottle of Stella, raises it to me in a mock salute, and walks off in the opposite direction. Johanna gives me an expectant look.

I huff out an irritated sigh. "What?"

"So, where were you, really?" When I hesitate, Johanna rolls her eyes and scoffs, "You needed air? On a goddamn yacht?" Her lips tip up just a tinge. "C'mon, tell me the truth. Did something happen between you two? I saw the way Golden Boy was looking at you when he showed up for his photo session. He must have checked his phone at least dozen times in the hour he was there. He didn't think he was being obvious, but he was." Her eyebrows lift and that look returns.

But hearing Johanna refer to Peeta as "Golden Boy" vaults me right back to my unpleasant conversation with Rye. If there is anything truth to the accusation that Rye leveled—about Peeta's interest in me being a result of me being "off-limits"—Johanna would likely have some insight to it. Her position at Mellark requires her to be close to both men.

Casually I ask, "Are they always like this? Peeta and Rye?" Keeping the focus on the two of them is a safe place to start.

Johanna purses her lips and studies me. I suspect she knows I'm evading her interrogation. Still, she gives a little half-shrug and says, "They're never going to be best friends. But in the off-season they're civil to each other. They hang out occasionally. You saw them the night of Peeta's birthday."

"But _during_ the season?" I prompt. Some partygoers jostle us on their way past. Johanna mutters something under her breath and drags me further up the hallway, out of the way of drunken revelers.

" _During_ the season they're liking fucking oil and water," she replies. She withdraws a cigarette and a lighter from her clutch. Angling her face away from me, she blows out a stream of smoke. "And Rye's usually the instigator," she adds. Even though I absolutely believe that, having witnessed it first-hand, I play dumb and ask her how that is.

Johanna takes a long drag from her cigarette and flicks the ash over the side of the boat. Then she stares back at me, her hazel eyes appraisingly me critically. Her countenance hardens.

"You'd better not be fucking around with him," she says bluntly and then sucks on the tip of her cigarette. The allegation catches me off guard. I feel my jaw unhinge and I gape at her. She can't possibly think that I'd do _anything_ with Rye, that I could ever do something like that to Peeta.

Johanna exhales a wispy ribbon of smoke. It curls upward and dissipates. "You'd better not fucking around with _Peeta_ ," she clarifies, and silences me with that icy stare before I can protest. "I'm not talking about fucking in the literal sense, although I know damn well that's at the root of this thing with you and Peeta. I'm talking about fucking around with his emotions. Leading him around like a puppy dog."

My spine straightens, and my mind quickly aligns with the rest of my body to shift into defensive mode. "I've made it perfectly clear to Peeta that what is between us is solely professional and it needs to stay that way," I say.

"Have you?" she challenges.

"Yes, I have. That's what we were talking about out in the marina lot." I breathe in deeply, letting the night air fill my lungs. "Things got a little, um, intense earlier, before Peeta's photo session. We kissed. I mean, he kissed me." I pause, ignoring the flip in my stomach that surfaces remembering the way his lips claimed mine, the way he held me, and wait for Johanna's reaction to this news. Nothing but a subtle crook of one eyebrow. Apparently, she's not surprised by this revelation.

"But it was a mistake," I continue. "And I told him that. I would never want to do anything to get Peeta in trouble or endanger his position on the team…the whole contract thing, you know."

Johanna cocks her head at me, studying me pensively again. She finishes her cigarette and flicks it overboard. Then she exhales and leans against the rail. She folds her arms across her chest. "Let me ask you this: If it wasn't for that contract, what would you do?"

I exhale slowly. I know what Johanna is getting at: she thinks that I'm using the clause in Peeta's contract as a convenient excuse to avoid getting involved with him. And I know Peeta suspects the same, given the last thing he said to me before we walked back to the yacht.

But the answer to her question is far more complicated than either of them thinks it is. Because truthfully, Peeta's contract _is_ a convenient excuse for me to avoid confronting the deeper reason I've been reluctant to give in to my feelings for him.

Johanna obviously gets impatient waiting for my answer, because she rolls her eyes again. "Your mouth can deny it all you want, but the rest of you is screaming how much you are attracted to Peeta. Anyone can see the way you look at him."

"I don't—" I start. Johanna holds up a hand, but before she can continue, Effie's high-pitch trill announces her presence.

"There you are!" she cries triumphantly. "Come, come, darling. The people from HBO Sports are here! Henrik is with them now. You should really say hello, since you will be doing that interview and all." She loops her arm through mine and starts to draw me away from Johanna.

As much as I hate small talk I'm grateful for the reprieve from Johanna's cross-examination, though something tells me from the look she gives me when I say goodbye to her that our conversation is far from over. I give Johanna a less-than-authentic apologetic smile, then I willingly follow Effie up the corridor, vowing to put all thoughts of Peeta Mellark aside for the rest of the night.

* * *

The next morning an incoming text message jolts me awake. With my head still resting on the pillow, I fumble around on the nightstand until my hand finds purchase with my phone. Rolling onto my side, I blink a few times. My eyes focus on the screen just as a second message, this one a picture, comes through. Both texts are from Prim. I groan when I notice the time at the top of the screen. I love my sister, but sooner or later she's going to have to remember to think and do some time zone math before she texts me. It's barely five a.m. here in Barcelona.

 _ **Prim:**_ _OMG! Look who made it onto TMZ!_

Frowning, I tap on the second message to enlarge the picture, which appears to be a screen cap Prim has taken from the gossip rag's website. The headline reads: _"F1 Driver Peeta Mellark—Fast Mover!"_ Beneath the lame headline are two photos, side-by-side. The one on the left is a candid taken as Peeta and I walked the red carpet last night. My gaze lasers on Peeta. He's so damn photogenic. Those eyes. That smile. That jawline. My fingers start to inch towards the screen, intent on tracing the curve of that perfect jaw. But I stop cold when my eyes flick to the right and land on the second photo. It shows Peeta standing very, very close to a gorgeous woman. One of his arms is vined around her slender waist. From the angle of the photograph I can't tell where his other arm is. Her hands frame his face, holding him in place, as if they are about to kiss. My stomach starts to churn as I skim the blurb that accompanies the photos:

 _Formula 1 hotshot Peeta Mellark is a speed demon on the track…and clearly he moves just as fast with the ladies off the track. Mellark arrived at the Bacardi party in Barcelona tonight with one girl—and left with another! He walked the red carpet with Katniss Everdeen, who sources tell us is the chief mechanic for his race team. However, it seems that lingerie model Enobaria Delacroix might be the one who is really getting under Mellark's hood. Sources say Mellark and Delacroix stayed at the party until the early hours of the morning before leaving together._

God, who writes this shit? I slam my phone back on the nightstand. I flop back on the mattress and stare up at the ceiling.

 _You can't be mad. You don't get to be mad. You pushed him away._

After he walked away from me at the party, I hadn't seen Peeta again for the rest of the evening, though about an hour later he had texted me to let me know that whenever I was ready to leave his driver would be available to get me back to the hotel. I returned the text, thanking him, but he never replied. I guess now I know where —and with whom—he was. The churning in my stomach becomes more violent thinking about Peeta going home with that gorgeous supermodel.

With a frustrated groan, I grab the other pillow and smush it over my face, as if that could smother my jealousy and silence my subconscious. What the hell is Peeta Mellark doing to me?

I lob the pillow aside and roll over to grab my phone. There's no way Prim is asleep yet, not if she's sending me pictures. A minute later, she answers.

"Why are you calling me?" she demands. My brows furrow.

"You just sent me a text—" I start, but Prim's exasperated sigh cuts me off.

"You _didn't_ go home with him, did you?" she asks, disappointment thick in her voice.

"Go home with who?" I ask. What the hell is she talking about?

"Um, Peeta Mellark?"

My phone nearly tumbles out of my grip as I process to where Prim's delusional little mind has tripped. I regain my grasp and sit up in bed. "Why would I have gone home with Peeta Mellark?"

"Because," she drawls, dragging out the word, "anyone looking at that photo of you two at that party last night could see that he looked like he wanted to ravage you right there on the red carpet!"

My delusional stomach gives a little flip at Prim's comment. I think about the way Peeta's eyes locked on mine when he caged me in with his body on the private deck—right before he kissed me. My gut curdles almost immediately, though, when I remember my lips were probably not the only ones Peeta sampled last night. I shove the unpleasant thought aside.

"Prim, did you read the post?" I ask, even though I know she couldn't have. There's no way she'd be jumping to the assumption that I spent the night in Peeta's bed if she read the blurb about Peeta leaving the party with a beautiful, sexy underwear model.

Prim gets quiet. For several moments she doesn't say anything, but I can hear the faint clicks of keystrokes. There's an "oh." And another "oh," followed by a sigh, and not one of exasperation this time. This sigh is all apology.

"I'm sorry," she says quietly. "I didn't see that. I just saw the picture of you and him…and…" she trails off.

"Yeah." I pick at the nap of the hotel's comforter. "Peeta and I arrived at the party together, but that's it. It was a professional obligation. If he went home with anyone it was probably that model. Sorry to burst your bubble."

"Oh my god," she whispers. "You _like_ him. You _so_ like him."

"Prim," I protest, but she cuts me right off.

"Katniss," she retorts, "I'm your sister. I know you better than anyone. And you can deny it all you want, but I heard it in your voice just now."

"Heard what?" I hedge.

"You're jealous. You like Peeta Mellark and you don't like the thought that he could have been with someone else last night." Her tone softens. "Katniss, it's okay to admit that you might actually want a guy."

I close my eyes. All I see is Peeta. Those eyes. That smile. That jawline. _Shit, not again._ I huff out a sigh. Prim's right. Yes, I want him. And if I'm honest with myself, I want him more than I've wanted anything in a long, long time.

But that's not enough.

"Whether or not I want Peeta Mellark is irrelevant," I tell Prim. "There are just too many factors at play here and it means I have to keep things between us strictly work-related."

"Factors. What factors?" Prim scoffs. When I start to rattle off all the reasons that Peeta and I need to stay firmly in the friend zone—his contract, my job, media scrutiny—Prim snorts and interrupts me yet again.

"Please. None of those things should matter if there's a real attraction between you and him." There's a pause, and then she clears her throat. "You can't fool me, Katniss. This isn't about some silly clause in Peeta's contract or you worrying about locker room talk or media speculation. You've never given a shit what people think about you—and I mean that in the best way. This is about is you and your guarded heart and your refusal to let anyone get close to you."

I stay quiet, letting her accusation settle into my bones. Again, she's right. Up until this point in my life I've been fortunate that my heart has never been challenged. Not even tempted, really. The only man who has pursued me is Gale Hawthorne. We spent a few awkward months "dating" when we were teenagers, and I gave him a second chance several years ago before I permanently broke it off again. Despite his better efforts, I've just never felt anything beyond friendship for him.

"Peeta's a driver, Prim," I say, as if that explains everything.

"Gale is a driver too," she retorts, throwing my hypocrisy right back in my face. I don't have a response for her. "Katniss," Prim says gently, "Peeta Mellark is not Dad. And you're not Mom. You are so much stronger than her. You can't let fear stop you from following your heart."

I heave an exasperated sigh. "Why do you keep bringing up my heart? This has nothing to do with love. It's an attraction, if anything, and it will pass. Lust always fades."

"If you say so," replies Prim quietly, and I know she knows I'm lying to her as much as I'm lying to myself.

After Prim lets the whole Peeta thing drop, we end up talking for nearly an hour. Most of our conversation centers on her, at my insistence. I need to hear about everything that's going on in her life. She prattles on about her classes and her friends and some new guy she's crushing on. I listen, letting her familiar voice and her sunny optimism about anything and everything comfort me.

When we eventually hang up, I try to close my eyes and drift back off. But it's futile. My mind is a whirlwind, and it keeps whipping back to what Prim said about me guarding my heart. Determined not to dwell on thoughts of what Peeta Mellark does to me, I roll out of bed and throw on a sports bra and some leggings. I lace up my sneakers and head down to the hotel gym.

Bad decision.

As soon as I swipe my room key and the gym doors unlock for me, I hear the rhythmic whirr of a rowing machine. I look over to them and my eyes land on Peeta. His back is to me, his head down, the defined muscles of his shoulders and back bunching with every stroke. Sweat darkens his hair, turning the flaxen strands a burnished gold. The very last person I need to see right now.

I know I should slip back out before he can see me, but I can't seem to coax my suddenly leaden legs to move. Instead, I hover in the doorway, watching him glide back and forth. His movements are so fluid, so effortless, that it's hard to believe he's breaking a sweat. But his heavy breaths are audible over the noise of the machine, so I know he's pushing himself hard. I tilt my head to the left, imagining what it would be like to hear that same deep breathing if he was buried inside me. Heat suffuses my limbs and I feel myself get wet. My nipples pucker. My breath catches. And at that exact moment, as if he has some sixth sense that can read my debauched thoughts, Peeta raises his head. In the mirrored wall that runs the length of the far wall his gaze snares mine and roots me in place. Frozen, I can't stumble backwards fast enough.

 _Dammit._ _Busted._

Peeta yanks out his earbuds and slides all the way back on the machine. Then he stands and reaches for a towel, all the while holding my stare captive. He mops at his face and the back of his neck, drapes the towel over his shoulders, and then turns to face me with a playful smile.

"Morning. You going to come in to work out, or you just gonna stand there and admire the view?"

"I, ah, I was just going to use the treadmill, but I can come back later," I reply. His grin falters. A flicker of hurt crosses his handsome face

"Don't change your plans on my account." Instantly I feel badly for implying I didn't want to be here simply because he was—even if it is partially the truth.

"I just don't want to disturb you," I say hastily. Another half-truth. Peeta's countenance softens.

"You are never a disturbance," he replies. He saunters towards me, and when he comes to a stop in front of me his blue eyes rake up and down the length of me once, twice. My pebbled nipples harden more at his deliberate perusal. His throat bobs as he adds, "Maybe a distraction, but never a disturbance."

I know where he's going with this, but I can't entertain his flirting. It's not fair to him, not if I'm resigned to keep things between us professional. And it's not fair to me, if he's pledging to fuck me one minute but spending the night with a supermodel the next.

"I'll do my best not to distract you," I say, making a move to brush past him. But his hand reaches out and coasts down my bare waist, settling on my right hip.

"You have no idea, do you?" He's so close that his breath fans across my cheek and his incredible scent floods my nose. Sweat and musk and that faint trace of spices, like cinnamon or nutmeg or something delicious. Talk about distractions.

"No idea what?" I reply, wincing as I hear my breath hitch. His fingers are branding my skin, setting me aflame again. I need to free myself from his touch before I do something stupid like throw myself into his arms and attack his lush mouth. So I step backwards, twisting my torso away from Peeta. He takes the hint and draws back his hand. His lips purse as his gaze considers me.

"Nothing," he says. "Don't work too hard." And he turns and strides out of the gym, the door clicking shut behind him. My shoulders sag. My heart thumps erratically. I take a deep breath, straighten up, and walk towards the treadmill.

* * *

Fifteen miles on the treadmill doesn't do much to clear my muddled thoughts, so after I finish up in the gym I head to the garage. The Spanish Prix is still several days away, but there's always something that can be done. And working always grounds me.

But the second I walk into the building Hurricane Delly strikes. She jumps up from behind her desk and barrels towards me.

"Katniss! Oh my gosh! Did you have fun last night? I saw pictures, and you looked a-may-zing!" She squeals out each syllable. "I loved your dress! Did Peeta like it? He definitely liked it, right? I mean…he ogles you when you're wearing coveralls, so I bet he could barely take his eyes off you all dressed up. I bet—"

"Delly." I hold my hand up and her mouth snaps shut. But her blue eyes dance and her expression is fraught with hopeful anticipation.

"I did have a nice time last night," I start. Delly's brows slip.

"Nice?" she echoes.

"Parties have never really been my scene."

"Oh, we're totally going to have to change that!" she chirps, and immediately starts babbling about some guy she recently met and how he's a deejay at some exclusive club in the city and how we need to go check it out before our time here in Barcelona ends. It's the last thing I want to do, but Delly, like all other Mellarks, is so damn persuasive that I find myself tentatively agreeing to go out with her and Johanna, if not tomorrow then sometime soon. Placated, Delly grins and claps her hands together.

"Now," she drawls, a mischievous glint in her eyes, "back to _last_ night. Tell me about you and Peeta."

"There's nothing to tell," I reply. "Peeta and I walked the red carpet together, but we really didn't see each other much after that." It's not entirely a lie. Delly shakes her head vehemently.

"No. No way. I know there's something there! Peeta is _so_ different around you. I've never seen him like this around any other woman. You guys could be so good together, if only…" she stops. Then she purses her lips and huffs out a breath that blows her blonde bangs upward. "You know, my uncle isn't an unreasonable man. That clause is there because of one stupid, selfish bitch. If Henrik knows how much you and Peeta like each other, he would—"

"Delly," I say gently, "stop. Clause or no clause, Peeta and I are not meant to be. And besides, he wasn't lacking for company last evening."

Delly's eyes widen with sympathy as I relay the details of the TMZ post speculating on Peeta and Enobaria Delacroix's probable hookup.

"Oh, Katniss. There's got to be an explanation for it," Delly says. I wave my hand dismissively.

"No explanation needed. Peeta can have any woman he wants. More power to him." I have to give myself some credit—I sound almost genuine.

"But he wants you!" insists Delly.

"Delly." Henrik appears in the doorway and I cringe thinking that he overheard any part of my exchange with Delly. But when his gaze lands on me he smiles warmly and says, "Oh, hello Katniss. I didn't realize you were here this morning." He walks towards Delly and hands her an envelope. "Would you mind taking this to FedEx? There's one three blocks from here." He winks at his niece. "And grab some espressos on your way back."

Delly nods obediently and flounces off. And as much as I love her, I'm grateful for the reprieve from her third-degree. I give Henrik a little wave, earning me one of those luminous Mellark grins that his sons—especially his youngest—inherited.

Henrik disappears back into the office, and I make my way into the garage, where I pull on my coveralls, queue up my music, and slide into the driver's seat of Peeta's car.

A Formula 1 steering wheel is one of the most complex pieces of technology you'll ever get your hands on. It has to be, since drivers must be able to control its settings while going at nearly 200 miles an hour. Most drivers are meticulously particular about their wheels. Peeta is no exception and I learned his preferences quickly. Thus, his wheel is something I check, and recheck, and recheck some more, up until the very minute he slips into his car on race day.

I work in pleasurable quiet for a while, humming along with whatever comes on the shuffle. It's the perfect tonic—but it's only temporary. I'm fiddling with the ignition rotary switch when I hear a voice say, "You wouldn't have struck me as the type who trolls the gossip blogs." I glance up and find Peeta staring down at me, phone in hand. He angles his screen towards me, showing me the exact same image that Prim sent me: the online post from TMZ. _Shit._ Delly and her big mouth. I sigh and slump back against the seat.

"Is this why you couldn't wait to get away from me at the gym?" he probes, adding, "Because it's not what they made it out to sound like."

Without thinking, I say, "What it sounded like is that you had a very good time last night." Peeta's chest rises on a deep breath and he frowns. Then he lowers himself into a squat so that his face is even with mine.

"Will you get out of the car, or are we going to have to talk like this?"

"You don't have to explain yourself to me, Peeta. I—"

"Dammit, Katniss!" he hisses, blue eyes blazing. "Please get out of the car so we can talk!" He straightens to his full height and thrusts his hand towards me to help me extricate myself from the racecar. The minute his fingers wrap around mine my body erupts in shivers. Goosebumps race along my arms and my nipples pucker. Fortunately I'm wearing my coveralls so this time Peeta can't see the reaction he incites in me.

I stride away from him, over to the workbench and lean against it, planting my hands on my hips. Peeta follows, stopping too close to me for my comfort. I narrow my eyes at him and he automatically takes a step back.

"You don't owe me an explanation," I repeat. "And I'm not upset with you, if that's what you think. You are free to hook up with beautiful models or pop stars or whoever else you want. We've been over this." Because we have. Peeta and I had this exact same conversation when I saw him in that hotel bar in China with Glimmer.

He closes the scant distance between us and locks his eyes on me. "There's only one woman on the planet that I want. And you damn well know who she is. It's important to me that you know that, and it's important to me that you let me explain what happened last night. I swear I didn't just go find some other woman to get my rocks off because you rejected me."

The word "rejected" sounds so harsh. I stiffen and start to protest, "I didn't—"

"You did," he insists, his voice soft, with just the slightest trace of hurt. "You _did_ reject me. I left for my photo session on clouding fucking nine thinking I had everything to look forward to, and an hour later you were pushing me away." He sucks in a breath and lifts his gaze to the ceiling briefly. He returns his eyes to me and exhales. "And so, yeah, I needed some distance after that, to clear my head. Between you and the run-in with my brother…I needed to be alone."

 _But you weren't alone. You were with that supermodel,_ I think. But I silence the jealous little voice inside my head and let him continue.

"Of course, it was naïve of me to think that would have been possible with a couple thousand people on that yacht." A bitter edge has crept into his voice, and it makes me think of the day he and I spent at the beach. That day he had seemed so nonchalant about his fame and the intrusions of privacy he constantly endures. But at this moment, I realize that Peeta—gregarious, charming, happy Peeta—is a far better actor than I've given him credit for. Sympathy for him tugs at my heart. I yearn to give him a hug, but I fear even a friendly embrace would be too dangerous, too tempting.

He rubs at his jaw. "A bit later on I ran into Enobaria, and she wanted to catch up. We had done an ad campaign together a few years ago."

 _Of course she did,_ that jealous voice nags again. I resist every urge I have to roll my eyes, and I bite my lip instead. Peeta doesn't miss it, and his eyes flare. He steps closer and his voice dips into that sexy-husky register I've grown so addicted to. "I know how it looked. But Enobaria is French. What that paparazzo captured was this." As his palms frame my jaw, my stomach bottoms out. He leans forward and brushes his lips over my right cheek. I can smell the mint on his breath and see the golden hairs stippling his cheeks and chin as he shifts and grazes my left cheek with his mouth. My heartbeat takes off in a sprint. He draws back, his eyes locked on mine. Waiting. Daring me.

I feel irritation flash in me as our gazes spar. Abruptly, I plant my palms on that broad chest and shove hard. His eyes round with surprise as he stumbles back.

"Enough with the games!" I shout, and then immediately wince. I need to lower my voice and keep my temper in check. I definitely don't need Henrik or Haymitch coming in here to investigate why I'm yelling at Peeta.

"Games?" Peeta folds his arms across his chest. His blue eyes challenge me.

"Yes, games," I spit. "Your little demonstration just now. You're deliberately trying to get a rise out of me!"

He shakes his head, a smirk toying with the corners of his mouth. "I did nothing of the sort. I'm showing you exactly how I kissed Enobaria last night. Just two friends saying hello. No spark. No fire.

"But you and I, Katniss…well, nothing about us is innocent, is it?" My fingers furl into a fist, but before I can argue with him his gaze sharpens and lands on my throat, where my objection is trapped. "Don't lie to yourself. This was different because _we_ are different. You felt something just now. Your face has that pretty flush to it and—" He inches towards me cautiously, the way one might approach a sleeping animal, and he presses his index and middle fingers just below my jaw. My frenetic pulse leaps furiously against his fingertips. His lips curl in triumph.

"You're as turned on from that "innocent" kiss as I am," he whispers thickly. His fingers skim along my skin as he lets his hand drop. My eyes follow the movement to where his palm rests on his thigh. Right next to the very obvious bulge at the front of his jeans. For a moment, I allow myself to remember what his cock felt like pressed up against me last night. My sex clenches in response. I try to look away from his erection but don't do it quickly enough for him not to notice me ogling it.

"Yeah, I'm hard," he replies bluntly. "This is the effect you have on me, just from being near you. Thinking about you. And I think about you all the time, Katniss. All the fucking time. I was thinking about you the entire time I was with Enobaria and I was still thinking about you when I went home alone."

I mash my lips together to mask my reaction to his confession. Despite _my_ promise not to spend _my_ night thinking about Peeta Mellark, that was pretty much allI had done too. It hadn't helped that most of the conversations I had with people throughout the evening revolved around him. And really, how the hell was I supposed to resist thinking about him when I had to keep talking about him?

"I don't know what the fuck Rye said to you last night, but I know he had something to do with your sudden 180," Peeta accuses. His tone bears no bitterness; rather, he sounds anguished. And Peeta's pain is my weakness. I know from the flicker that briefly lights his eyes that my own distressed expression is his answer. "What did he say to you, Katniss?" he coaxes gently.

"It's not important," I say. But I don't sound even remotely convincing.

"It _is_ important," he volleys back. I bite my lip. I don't want to do anything to further fracture his already tenuous relationship with Rye, but the beseeching look that Peeta is giving me reminds me that my loyalty lies with him. Our romantic entanglement might be a mess but I value our friendship more than anything. And so, with a deep breath I give Peeta an abbreviated version of my conversation with his brother. I try to shift any blame from Rye, but I can see Peeta's jaw lock tight and a vein in his neck ticks visibly as he listens.

"Why the fuck would you believe him?" he asks. He shakes his head. "I would never, ever disrespect you like that, Katniss. Am I a competitive person? Yeah. Do I like to win? Fuck yeah, I do. But you are _not_ some fucking game to me. I want you because _I_ want _you_. Because I can't stop thinking about how sweet you'd taste on my tongue or how fucking good you'd feel on my cock."

"Peeta," I warn, ignoring the free fall of my stomach and the urgent throb that pulses between my legs. He takes my right hand in his.

"You're not a game, Katniss," he echoes, his thumb trailing over my knuckles. "And it's _very_ important to me that you know that."

"O-okay." I stutter. He squeezes my hand.

"So we're good?" he whispers hopefully. I stare down at our clasped hands and a strange flutter moves through my belly.

"We're good," I reply.

"Good." His smile morphs to a wide grin. "Because when you finally come to your senses and give in to the inevitable and you're under me and I'm inside you, I don't want there to be any doubt in your mind."

"You're incorrigible," I say, the flutter morphing into a full-blown tremor.

He laughs. "I'll take that as a compliment. Now—" he pauses and releases my hand so he can pull his phone from his pocket. "How much longer do you think you'll be here?" I glance past Peeta to his car. There's plenty that I could do, but nothing that is truly pressing. There's another full day before qualifying. I shrug.

"I don't know," I say truthfully.

"I'll give you an hour. Then you're all mine. There's a gorgeous city out there and you haven't seen enough of it." He brushes past me, his fingers ghosting along my hip as he passes. "One hour," he calls over his shoulder.

* * *

Peeta keeps his promise, returning exactly sixty minutes later. For the rest of the day, I allow him to play tour guide. He shows me all his favorite sights in Barcelona. As we wander around the city, we argue lightheartedly about whether La Sagrada Familia is a breathtaking masterpiece (his opinion) or sheer foolishness given its 130-year construction work (my opinion). I learn he's an art lover during brief visits to the Museu d'Art Contemporani and the Museu Picasso. He talks animatedly about the paintings and sculptures and the artists who created them. I find myself listening rapt, despite my own indifference to art.

At the end of the afternoon, Peeta takes me to his favorite tapas bar, where he introduces me to authentic Spanish sangria. I'm not generally a huge drinker, but Peeta works his usual charm to persuade me to join him indulging in a large carafe of it. When I make a joke about having to work it off, Peeta's blue eyes gleam wickedly as he suggests he knows far more creative ways to burn calories than running on a treadmill.

So, yeah, that dangerous undercurrent of attraction still crackles between us, threatening to catch fire at any moment.

* * *

The morning of the Spanish Prix dawns dark and ominous. Gray clouds tinged with black, swollen with rain, threaten to burst at any moment. The first raindrops plunk down just as I reach the garage and steady drizzle is falling by the time Peeta takes to the track for warm-ups an hour later.

It's extremely rare that races are postponed for any kind of inclement weather. Formula 1 drivers just have to learn to cope with the hazards caused by wet conditions. A slick track requires even more concentration and precision on the part of the driver. Along with the usual obstacles, there's the added danger of hydroplaning, which of course dramatically increases the odds of collisions.

"Be careful out there," I say into my headset after Peeta completes his final tire and system checks and he gets into pole position on the grid.

"Oh, I love it when things are wet," he says. My mind takes a swan dive right into the gutter and my cheeks flame, because I can envision the deviously sexy smirk that I know is gracing his lips from uttering the innuendo.

"Peeta! I'm not the only one on this frequency," I scold.

"I'm not joking, Katniss. I don't mind the rain at all. Sure, it complicates things. But I'm very good at complicated matters. The race becomes more of a head game and it doesn't favor the drivers who are pure speed, like Finnick Odair and Cato Wagner."

I can see that. Part of Peeta's meteoric rise to success has been his ability to combine speed and precision. He's one of the most skilled drivers I've ever seen in action. My father, who was hailed for the same prowess in his day, would have been in awe of Peeta's talent. I feel a faint pang in my chest at the thought.

"Well, still…be careful," I warn again. "And good luck."

"The odds are in my favor. Trust me on this one." His voice oozes confidence. And I do trust him. Peeta makes it very easy to believe in him.

A few minutes later, the director switches off the paired lights and the race is on. The cars peal off, Peeta immediately jostling for position with the usual challengers.

The rain intensifies through the early laps, and the wet track definitely affects the drivers. But Peeta is exactly right: Finnick Odair and Cato Wagner ultimately fall to the middle of the pack. Marvel Allen, Capitol Racing's number-two driver, and Lewis Boggs, Star Racing's primary driver, are the ones vying with Peeta and Rye for the lead.

Eventually the rain stops. The sun appears through a fissure in the clotted clouds just as Peeta and Rye commence the final lap. It's clear that Mellark Racing is going to finish one-two; the only question is which brother is going to cross the finish line ahead of the other. When the checkered flag waves, Peeta edges Rye by a microscopic 0.174 seconds, the closest finish yet on this season's Prix. Our pit erupts into celebration.

Peeta climbs out of his car moments later, shedding his helmet and balaclava. "I told you so," he mouths to me and winks. He high-fives some of the crew and then vanishes for the post-race formalities while I wait patiently for the race officials to complete the inspection of Peeta's car. Once they give me the all clear, I set to work getting the car stripped and ready for transport to Monaco.

* * *

That night, I'm brushing my teeth when my phone lights up with a text message. I glance down at the screen and read:

 _ **Peeta:**_ _I have champagne._

I sigh, toothbrush still jammed between my back molars, and pick up my phone. Three words—but so much implied in them. My fingers hover over the keys.

 _ **Katniss:**_ _Congrats on your win._

 _ **Peeta:**_ _Thats exactly why I have the champagne. Now all I need is my best girl to celebrate w me._

 _ **Katniss:**_ _Long day. Tired. I was just getting ready for bed._

 _ **Peeta:**_ _I would be more than willing to help you w that._

I playfully roll my eyes at the little devil emoji that he's stuck on the end of his message. Another text comes through.

 _ **Peeta:**_ _But seriously…Please? I wont keep you up too late, promise._

I spit the toothpaste into the sink and rinse my mouth. I can picture the exact look he'd be giving me, that one that rivals a stray puppy pleading to be taken home. He makes it so hard to say no to him.

 _ **Katniss:**_ _Ok. But Delly and Jo both asleep so will have to be quiet._

 _ **Peeta:**_ _I have a better idea. Come to the elevator._

 _ **Katniss:**_ _Already in my pjs._

 _ **Peeta:**_ _Cant wait to see that. I'll be waiting._

It's the last message I get.

After a quick glimpse down at my thin camisole and sleep shorts, I decide to pad back into my room to retrieve a zippered hoodie and my flip-flops. I shove my room key into the hoodie's pocket and tiptoe down the hall to the bank of elevators. Peeta's already standing inside the one nearest to me. His left hand clutches the neck of a bottle of champagne while his other hand rests on the button that holds the doors open. He looks effortlessly sexy in a snug white t-shirt and a pair of worn jeans that sit low on his hips. He's barefoot, which somehow only amplifies his sexiness. I step inside the elevator and arch my brows at him quizzically. His mouth slowly curves into a smile as he releases the button and pushes another button. There's a chirping sound as he scans his room key. The elevator lurches into motion.

"I know you're tired. We don't have to stay up there for long," he says, reaching for my hand.

"Up where?" I ask. Suspicion fringes my voice but my nerves erupt in unexpected excitement. He purses his lips at me.

"The roof. It's a beautiful night now that the rain has stopped."

"Peeta!" I exclaim. "We can't go up there! The pool is closed!" He just threads his fingers through mine and squeezes. A moment later, the elevator glides to a stop. "This is crazy!" I hiss as he leads me towards the roof door. He slides his room key through a scanner and the little light on the door flashes green three times. He opens it and holds it for me.

"After you," he says, bowing theatrically. I shake my head at him as I step out onto the roof.

"How are we allowed to be up here?" I ask, my eyes sweeping over the pool. The water glows with an eerie blue tint from the underwater lights.

He starts to work on the foil on the champagne bottle. "You probably don't want the answer to that," he says.

"Well, of course now you're going to have to tell me." I watch his able fingers twist the wire cage loose from the cork. His chest inflates on the deep breath he takes.

"There's very little my name and my money can't get me," he replies, a sheepish, almost guilty expression stealing across his face. "And tonight what I wanted most is to be alone with you," he adds. A shiver skitters down my spine and my heart kicks my ribs. He motions for me to follow him across the darkened patio to the edge of the pool, where he sits down sideways on a chaise lounge and pats the cushion beside him. I take a seat as he uncorks the champagne with a loud "pop" and offers me the bottle. "Cheers," he says, pushing the bottle into my hand.

"Are we ever going to use glasses?" I ask, taking a small sip of champagne. I pass back the bottle and lick my lips.

"Nah. Guzzling champagne right from the bottle is our thing now. It's very classy." He flashes that grin that makes my heart skip a beat. Stupid heart—so easily led astray by this man.

"At the rate you're winning you'd better have a pretty big stash on hand," I reply, trying to calm my racing pulse by turning the conversation back to safer things. "Another impressive victory today."

His grin softens. "I told you, every win is as much yours as it is mine. We make a great team."

I take a long sip of champagne and let the bubbles dance over my tongue as I gaze out at the twinkling city, Peeta's words of praise burrowing beneath my skin.

Then I feel him gather my loose hair in his hand. "A great team," he repeats. His breath tickles my ear and my neck. A delicious chill washes over me. He kisses just below my earlobe. My pulse takes off again.

"Wh-what are you doing?" I say shakily. His lips continue to trek down the slope of my neck, worshipping my skin with gentle, deliberate kisses. His fingers card through my hair and his other hand slides the zipper of my hoodie down a couple of inches.

"Celebrating our victory," he whispers. His tongue paints a wet trail across my collarbone and I can't help but arch my back as desire flares in me.

"Peeta." I mean to say his name in a warning, but it comes out breathless, like a plea for more. He kisses the hollow of my throat and nudges my chin with his nose as he pulls back. Wordlessly, he takes the champagne bottle from me. His throat bobs as he takes several gulps, and then he sets it down on the concrete. As he stands up, my eyes stray to his groin and the very obvious erection straining against his jeans. With one fluid motion, he strips off his t-shirt and tosses it to the patio. I suck in a breath when I hear the click of metal and the soft switching noise as he undoes his belt and slides it from the loops. I raise my eyes to his navel. The carved slabs of his gorgeous abdominal muscles are cast in shadow. A moment later, his jeans fall to the ground.

He stands before me clad in only a pair of tight black boxer-briefs that do an even poorer job of concealing the evidence of how hard he is. I can see the distinct outline of his cock through the dark fabric. I lick my lips, slower than I intend to. I know he doesn't miss how long my tongue lingers on my bottom lip. His hands move to the waistband of his underwear and when I realize what he intends to do, it finally startles me out of my haze.

"Peeta!" I whisper-scream into the still night. "You can't!" He smirks at me as he works the briefs down his legs. Our gazes collide.

"I can and I am," he retorts. He remains motionless, daring me to look down. But I stubbornly keep staring up at him, knowing damn well if I lay eyes on his bound-to-be-perfect dick that I'll be a goner. My body rebels, heat blooming in my chest and arousal flooding the juncture of my thighs. I want to look. So help me, dammit, I want to look.

"Even in this poor lighting I can see that pretty blush on your face," Peeta murmurs.

"You shouldn't be naked." My voice sounds rough and foreign to my ears. He shrugs and swings his arms around several times, loosening them up.

"I'm not going to swim with my clothes on and I didn't bring a suit," he taunts back. With that, he turns and I get a brief but tantalizing glimpse of his bare butt as he executes a flawless dive into the water. I leap up from the chaise. My flip-flops slap noisily on the concrete as I approach the pool. He surfaces.

"Peeta! It rained earlier and that water—"

"Is heated," he supplies, his muscled arms moving lazily as he treads in place. The water ripples around him, dancing spider webs of shadow and light. "It's delightful." Curious, I kick off my flip-flops and dip a toe into the water. He's right. It's warm. Very warm. More like bathwater than pool water. I settle on the edge of the pool and submerge my feet, my hands resting behind me on the concrete.

Peeta floats on his back, giving me a perfect opportunity to unabashedly ogle his chest. I can only imagine how it might feel to splay my palms over it, to feel his smooth skin and the firm muscles flexing at my touch. My cheeks flame hotter.

He drifts closer to me. "You could come in and join me," he says, his lips quirked up in invitation.

"I'm good here, thanks," I reply, gazing up at the star-pocked sky, not so much for any reason other than to resist the temptation of a very naked, very wet Peeta Mellark only several yards away from me. I can hear soft splashes as he moves around in the water.

But then I feel the light pressure of his fingertips gliding up my calves. I drop my eyes just as he lunges up and yanks me down into the water, into his embrace. I yelp in surprise. He whispers hoarsely, "I think you're better in here," and he crushes his mouth to mine, muffling any objection from me. His lips are wet and hot and insistent as they coax mine to life. His hands slip under my hoodie to skim up and down my back, his touch electric through my now soaked camisole. He grasps my hips and urges me to wrap my legs around his waist. That nagging little voice in my head is screaming for me to push him away, but it's deftly muzzled by the wanton, reckless part of me that Peeta seems to be so good at rousing to life. He breaks our kiss and stares deeply into my eyes.

"Stop thinking, Katniss," he orders, cupping my jaw. The hunger I see dilating his pupils has my stomach doing a death-spiral. "I want you. You want me. This doesn't have to be complicated." I close my eyes, as much to break the connection between us as to gather my tormented thoughts. I do want him. I've wanted him from the moment I first saw him.

"Katniss?" I open my eyes.

"It _is_ complicated," I say quietly.

"It doesn't have to be," he insists.

"Your contract," I say. Peeta makes a scoffing noise.

"Let me worry about that stupid fucking clause," he says.

"But I don't want to do anything that would jeopardize your job, or mine."

"Katniss," he says softly, "I would never allow anything to happen to your job. You're the best mechanic I've ever had. You're stuck with me." He touches his thumb to the center of my bottom lip. He gently draws it down and descends on my mouth for a whisper of a kiss. "Stop fighting this. Stop fighting us. Be with me. Please." His lips brush mine a second time, snipping any remaining threads of my logic. I'm powerless to resist him anymore. For one night I can give in to this thing between us. One night to get whatever this thing between us is out of both our systems.

I hoist myself higher on his solid frame and squeeze his hips with my thighs. My fingers delve into his wet hair. He holds me in place with one strong arm and cradles my neck with his other hand to deepen our kiss. His lips move against mine with more pressure, more urgency. He takes my top lip between his and the slight scrape of his teeth has me clutching him tighter, needing to be as close to him as humanly possible.

Unlike our previous kisses, there's something different fueling this one. We both know where this is going and that this time I'm not going to be stopping us. Our mouths tussle eagerly. Peeta's tongue circles my lips twice before nudging them apart. He slides his tongue along mine, licking tentatively at first but soon possessing my tongue with bolder strokes. I try to match him, but all of my senses are on overload and lust is clouding my brain, so I just give in and let his expert tongue guide mine.

After several minutes, we break apart to catch our breath, but the smoldering look in Peeta's eyes nearly makes me forget how to take the air into my lungs. He brings his thumb up to caress my cheek and keeps his eyes locked on mine as his other hand slowly unzips my hoodie the rest of the way. He eases it off my shoulders and tosses it onto the concrete, where it lands with a loud splat. The air between us thickens more and crackles with electricity as he lowers his gaze to my chest. My wet camisole is transparent now; my nipples are clearly visible through the sheer fabric. Peeta's thumb traces a slow path along my jawline, down the column of my throat, and pauses in the valley between my breasts. Slowly, he slides his palm across my right breast and traps the tip between his index and middle fingers. He tugs gently. I gasp from the sharp spike of pleasure that travels right to my core.

"Fuck do I love that sound," he murmurs. He plucks my nipple again. I issue a moan in response, and dig my fingertips into his scalp. He continues to pinch my nipple lightly. Bolts of current zip through me, my body starting to sing for him.

Peeta walks us to the shallower end of the pool, where he unwinds me from his waist and sets me down. His hands skate around to my back. He bunches up my sodden camisole. I gape at him, frozen, and raise my arms to allow him to peel the top off me. He flicks it over my head and I hear it smack against the concrete. My nipples tingle, anticipating his touch. His hands coast up my ribs, hovering just below my bare breasts.

"Do you remember the first thing I ever said to you?" His eyes are glassy, glazed with lust. They flicker back and forth, searching my eyes for a response. I remember, of course, but I can't find my voice. He continues, "I said that I wanted to know what I had to do to get you to touch me the way you were touching my car. Like it was the most precious thing in the world." His thumbs graze my nipples. The contact invites a grateful sigh to part my lips. Peeta bumps his pelvis against me. His cock prods my stomach.

"But fuck, Katniss, what I wanted even more was to touch _you_ like that. I've wanted to get my hands on you every damn minute since that day." He slants his mouth over mine. This time when his tongue invades my mouth it's in a slow, sensual exploration. His hands roam over my breasts, kneading them possessively but reverently. Each squeeze feels like it's tethered to my core. My clit throbs. Reflexively, I start rolling my hips forward, desperate for more contact with his erection. He makes a little growling sound and seizes my tongue, kissing me hard and deep. His hands venture to the waistband of my sleep shorts. He draws back, breathing heavily, and gives me a wicked smile before diving under the water. His hands skim up my outer thighs, and then he wrests my shorts and panties down my legs, resurfacing with both in his hand. He tosses them onto the patio beside the rest of our discarded clothing. He scrubs his hands through his wet hair and blinks the water from his eyes. A few droplets cling to those beautiful, long lashes.

I'm naked. He's naked. For several minutes we just stare at each other, as if we're both daring the other to make the first move. I moisten my lips and apparently that's all it takes. He winds an arm around my waist and I float closer to him. Our nude bodies are now just inches apart.

"You are so gorgeous," he says softly. His cock nudges my thigh. Impulsively, I reach down and wrap my fingers around the shaft. A little moan slips past my lips at the feel of him in my hand, thick and hard and ready. I slide my palm from root to tip and give him a squeeze.

"God, yes," he hisses. He tilts his head and presses his lips against my neck, suckling lightly. I tighten my grip on him. His tongue traces circles over my pulse point as his hand slithers up my belly to cup my breast. He strokes my nipple lazily. The pressure between my legs mounts as my orgasm starts to take shape. I moan his name and a low groan vibrates in his throat. He kisses me fast and rough before breaking away. I watch as he uses his strong arms to hoist himself up on the pool's ledge, giving me a perfect view of his toned ass. He clambers out of the pool, dripping water everywhere. When he turns around to stare down at me, my eyes hone right in on his groin. It's the first good look I've gotten at his dick, and _holy shit_ it doesn't disappoint. I've never thought a penis could be beautiful, but damned if Peeta Mellark's cock isn't a thing of glory. He's fully hard—and very big. Pre-cum glistens on the crown. I feel an insistent tug behind my bellybutton and my skin prickles as my eyes traverse the length of him. His cock visibly twitches under my scrutiny, provoking an urgent twinge between my legs, along with a very dirty thought: _I need that. I need him inside me._

I raise my eyes to meet Peeta's. His mouth curls into a devious grin. He licks his lips and then bends forward slightly. His hands wrap around my upper arms and lift me from the water effortlessly, as if I weigh no more than a feather. Goosebumps fleck my wet skin as I'm exposed to the night air. Instinctively I stretch forward, seeking the warmth of his flesh, but he holds me at arm's length and his gaze slowly treks down my figure. The raw hunger in his expression sends a fresh flurry of shivers rushing through me.

"So much I want to do to you," he starts, his voice low and smoky. "Your body…it's fucking perfection." He steps towards me, his chest rising and falling rapidly with each short, shallow breath. Slowly and deliberately he molds his palm over my left breast. His thumb skims across my nipple. The slight touch ignites heat everywhere, chasing away my chills. Peeta lowers his mouth to mine but he bypasses my waiting lips and I feel his other hand tangle in my damp hair. He tugs lightly, arching my neck, and the tip of his tongue samples my jaw before sliding down to my throat. A needy sound—half moan, half whine—vibrates in my throat right above where his lips are worshipping the tender skin of my collarbone. Peeta growls his approval and his hand guides me to drop my chin. He slants his mouth over mine and his tongue easily parts my lips to plunge into my mouth. Our bodies collide. My breasts crush against his chest and his cock presses against my belly. I coast my hands down his back to grasp his ass. The firm globes of muscle tense under my touch. His pelvis juts forward. His hands slide to my waist and he hoists me up. My legs wrap around his strong thighs and I cling to him.

He walks us backward, our mouths still fused together, until we reach a lounge chair tucked away in a shadowy corner. I wrestle my lips away from his, gasping for breath. Peeta sucks in a breath of his own and then flashes a dark smile. His fingers bite into my hipbones as he settles on the edge chair, bringing me with him. He tugs me forward. I'm so wet with arousal that his cock slips between my lower lips and easily nestles right up against me. It feels so impossibly good that I buck my hips and glide along his hardness again, moaning as it stimulates my clit. Peeta promptly takes my bottom lip between his teeth. The kiss quickly spirals into something desperate. We're ravenous for each other. Tongues duel. Teeth clash. Lips barely hit their target. Hands roam and explore.

Nightfall hasn't lessened the thick humidity in the air. His skin is slick with sweat and I'm sure mine is too. I keep rocking into him, nudging myself closer and closer to that peak I'm chasing. Suddenly he stands, with me still twined around him. He pivots and very gently lays me out on the lounger. Without another word, he strides over to our discarded clothes and bends down to grab his jeans. I sit up on my elbows to watch him as he walks back towards me, his erect cock bobbing with each step. The moonlight catches the foil packet he holds and it gleams briefly.

"Too much," he whispers, stopping beside me. "You were going to send me right over the edge. And I want to be inside you when I come. I want to feel you coming on me. It's all I've been thinking about for months." He rips the packet open and I watch, captivated, as he sheathes himself with the condom. Cautiously he climbs atop me on the lounger, caging me under his lean, hard body. I shiver from the intimacy of his incredulous gaze.

"Tell me we have all night." He takes his cock in his hand and rubs the crown through my soaked folds. I whimper, feeling the slight pressure of him right where I want him most. My clit pulses and my inner muscles contract. He pushes inside me just an inch or so and stares down at me, his blue eyes hazy, his jaw locked tight. "Tell me you're mine tonight so I can fuck you again and again." He penetrates me another inch. I swallow a moan and barely manage a nod.

"All night. I'm yours all night," I echo.

"Good." He grazes my earlobe with his teeth. "Because once isn't going to be enough for me, and right now…" His hot breath causes me to shudder. "Right now, this is going to be..." He exhales and drives into me the rest of the way. I cry out, unprepared for the sheer size of him. Immediately, he stills. I take a deep pull of oxygen and exhale it slowly, letting my body adjust to the sensation of being filled by him.

"You okay?" he asks. I clench my jaw and nod.

"You're…it's…um, been awhile since I..." I stammer. Peeta's eyes round fleetingly and he kisses me slowly and possessively, his kiss speaking his obvious contentment with my awkward confession. He pulls out and then thrusts back into me, beginning a steady but intense rhythm. I arch into him and start to loop my arms around his broad shoulders, intent on letting him take control, but he catches one of my wrists in his grip. He raises my arm above my head and threads our fingers together. He uses his other hand to urge my leg higher on his hip, allowing him to drive even deeper inside me. The way he moves his hips grinds his pelvis into me, placing exquisite pressure on my clit. That familiar tightening in my belly builds. I sink my teeth into my lip and squeeze my eyes shut, fighting the climax that is approaching much too quickly. My body feeds off him like I've been starved. Which, I guess, it has. I wasn't lying. I haven't had sex in years. It's been an eternity since I was with Gale. (And if I'm honest that sucked. Both times.) And it's not like I've been getting myself off with any regularity.

Okay, maybe a little more than usual since I started working for Mellark Racing…

But it can't be only these things that have me responding to him the way that I am. Some part of me knows that this is about him—it's _Peeta_ who is inciting this reaction in me. The thought is terrifying and it's far too much to consider in the moment. This needs to be about sex and only sex. Nothing more. I try to silence my thoughts by concentrating on the noises around us: The erotic sounds our bodies are making. Peeta's harsh breathing. The occasional curses that he rasps out. The faint hum of the traffic and tourists on the street below.

Peeta stares down at me, his brows and forehead glistening with perspiration. His blue irises blaze with heat and I can see his pulse hammering in his throat as he tips his head back. An errant bead of sweat rolls along his temple and down his cheek.

"You're so much better than my fantasies," he says between sharp pants for breath. "So fucking good. So tight. So perfect."

I suck in a breath through my nose and clench my muscles around his cock in an attempt to hold off my orgasm. He makes a guttural noise in response, and pounds into me so hard, so deep that I can't fight my climax any longer. The most incredible orgasm rockets through me. My mouth falls open on a moan of his name as my inner muscles spasm wildly, gripping Peeta's cock tighter with each flutter. He groans and rocks into me faster and faster. I close my eyes and give in to the languid bliss overtaking my body.

Inexplicably Peeta's thrusts slow almost to the point where he stops moving, his cock buried deep inside me. I open my eyes in surprise and find him gazing at me in a way that makes my already racing heart accelerate even more. He untangles my fingers from his grip and his hand curls around the nape of my neck to raise me towards him.

"Goddamn, Katniss. Watching you come…it might be the best thing I've ever seen." Something flickers in his irises and his lips kick up into a faint smirk. "I need to see it again," he rasps, his breath skating across my lips. He nudges my knees up to my chest and shifts his weight. As he resumes thrusting, his lips possess mine with a renewed urgency. He wields his mouth like a wand, drawing me under his spell. He really is a phenomenal kisser.

Peeta's hand wedges between our slick bodies. His hand palms my breast and his thumb rouses my nipple. I moan into his mouth and dig my fingertips into his shoulders, bowing my legs wider for him. My first orgasm has barely ebbed, but another one quickly starts to crest.

I know Peeta is nearing his own release when his hips start to stutter and his thrusts become increasingly less controlled. He drags his mouth down to the crook of my neck as his hand slithers further south so his fingers can strum my clit. I can hear him mumbling my name. A few more pumps and he comes. His cock pulses inside me in unison with my heartbeat, trigging my second orgasm. I fall over the edge again, as wave after wave of pure pleasure wash through my boneless body. I feel Peeta lift his mouth away from my neck.

"Open your eyes, Katniss," he says, his voice gravelly. Obediently, I lift my heavy eyelids and look into the bottomless pools of blue staring down at me. He kisses me, his tongue lingering on my bottom lip, before resting his forehead on mine. He's so close I could count each and every one of those mile-long eyelashes.

Our labored breathing mingles in the small space between us. It's the only sound for a good thirty seconds, until Peeta whispers, "Holy fuck, that was incredible." A grin lights his eyes. He releases his grasp on my breast and brings his hand to my mouth. Slowly, he rubs his thumb back and forth along the swollen curve of my bottom lip. "I could do this all night." My eyes stray downward to where we are still joined, his cock gradually softening inside me. Something stirs in my chest, and deeper still, low in my belly.

"I thought we did have all night," I say. Though tendrils of bliss continue to waft through my blood, I'm already thinking about another round. If we only have tonight, I'm going to be a greedy bitch about it and take everything Peeta will give me.

He laughs. "I meant lying here staring at you." He tangles his hand into my damp hair and draws me towards him, our lips just inches apart. "You are so beautiful," he says, before molding his mouth to mine. We kiss, unhurriedly, and it's only when Peeta's cock twitches and starts to get hard again that he reluctantly breaks the seal of our lips and pulls out of me. As soon as he climbs off me, my body laments the loss of his warmth and I shudder as my sweaty, naked skin is exposed to the night air. I sit up and rub my palms up and down my arms. I squint, following Peeta's path into the murky darkness across the patio. The moonlight paints his golden skin a pale blue as I watch him deposit the spent condom into a trash bin. Then he moves around the perimeter of the pool to gather up our clothes. I stand, shivering once more, and walk towards him. He shakes his head when I reach for my soaked camisole and boxer shorts.

"Don't need them," he says. I frown.

"Peeta, we can't go traipsing through the hotel naked!"

"No one is going to see us traipsing through the hotel naked," he whispers teasingly. "There's an elevator that goes directly to my penthouse suite."

"Your father? Your brother?" There's a glint of irritation in his blue eyes at the mere mention of Rye.

"I haven't shared a room with Rye since I was eight years old. We get our own suites. Stop worrying. No more excuses." He descends on my lips for a kiss and maneuvers me backwards towards the roof door. Once inside the elevator, he lets our bundled clothes drop to the floor and uses his body to pin me to the back wall. His hands coast down my hips and around to my thighs. His resurgent cock presses insistently against my belly as his mouth commands mine to move.

This kiss is deep and decadent. Peeta's tongue coils in sinuous circles, chasing and retreating and claiming my tongue again and again.

"If I had another condom on me…" he grits out when he pauses to take a breath, "…I'd fuck you again, right here, right now." My eyes fly open.

"I'm…we can't…I'm not…" My cheeks flame. I feel ridiculous not being able to voice my concern, given what we just did, not to mention the fact we're both still naked, but sex is simply not something I've had much experience with. Intimacy is new to me.

"I wasn't asking permission," he says softly, the desire in his eyes replaced with apology. "I will always protect you, Katniss."

My lids shutter. Because I can't look at him. While I'm grateful to him for understanding what I meant without me having to admit aloud that I'm not on birth control, somehow I don't think his vow had anything to do with Pills or condoms. And I will not— _cannot_ —allow myself to think about anything other than this one night with Peeta Mellark.

* * *

 _I had intended to end this chapter in Spain…but I'm still not there yet, and so we have a little more to go before the next leg in Monaco. I hope you enjoyed. Thank you for reading. ~C._


End file.
